For the Movies
by acciograce
Summary: Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are two of the biggest stars in Hollywood. And they're forced to pretend they're in love to keep the head of Capitol Films, Mr. Snow, from exposing their biggest secrets.
1. Living in a house with just three walls

_** CaesarFlickrman**__ #Everlark sighting CapitolFilms – arrived and left separately – but what went on inside? U 2 aren't fooling anybody. Watch #flickerat5 4 xclusive footage!_

I roll my eyes as I browse through the Twitter feed on my iPad. Half of the 140 character messages bore me to tears – shameless self-promotion of crappy movies or new clubs opening in whatever hotspot was hottest this week. The other half seem to be about me and Peeta Mellark.

And I'm so tired of reading about me and Peeta Mellark.

"You gonna sit there and sigh all day, or are you gonna help me pack your shit, Everdeen?"

A deep voice pulls my attention away from the tablet. I set it down on my bedside table and turn to face my best friend and roommate, Gale Hawthorne. He stares back at me, bemused, one eyebrow raised. "Anything exciting?"

"I had a clandestine meeting with Peeta Mellark yesterday. Footage at 5." I sigh again.

"You crazy kids." Gale replies breezily, not half as annoyed as I would like him to be. "Now c'mere and help me, Catnip, before I lose my patience and make you drive yourself to the airport."

I swat his shoulder as I lean over to grab more clothing from the end of my bed. After unceremoniously stuffing at least ten pairs of socks and a couple ratty t-shirts into my suitcase, I look at him expectantly.

"Here, I'll sit on it. You can zip it." I say.

"Seriously?"

"You said you'd help."

It's Gale's turn to sigh.

We torment and tease each other each other, and he challenges me on everything to the point where some days I can barely stand to look at him. But truth be told, I'm glad to have Gale - especially on days like today.

Though we grew up in different parts of the country, we became fast friends when I moved to Los Angeles three years ago. I was an aspiring actress, he was a struggling documentary filmmaker just out of film school. When my roommate Madge decided she'd had enough of the Hollywood lifestyle and bailed, Gale moved in with me to help pay rent.

And then I had my big break.

_The Space Between._

As far as teen movie franchises go, I'm happy I found one of the better ones. It's about an apocalyptic world where oxygen is controlled by an oppressive government and children face certain death if they can't prove their worth to society when they turn 18.

When Capitol Films announced they were turning the popular book series into a film franchise, everyone who knew me had said I had to audition for the main character. And I had to admit I fit the character's description perfectly: long black hair, grey eyes, an olive complexion and tough-as-nails demeanor.

Tough as nails – that's me in a nutshell. I never dreamed I'd actually get the role. But up-and-coming director Seneca Crain was impressed with my audition tape and called me in to read even though I was a virtual unknown. Several screen tests and interviews later, I had the part.

The Space Between was a huge hit – bigger than Capitol had even anticipated. And somehow, I earned rave reviews. That movie, on top of the attention and awards I won for another role in a small independent film I did last year, catapulted me to stardom, seemingly overnight.

My character, Tessa Bradley, is strong, independent, and smart. A great role model for teen girls, and layered enough so I can really sink my teeth into the part. This is especially nice since I'll be playing her for the next two years at least. The author, Rebecca Ridgeway, just released the fourth and final installment a few weeks ago and I'm booked to appear in every film in the series.

It's everything I ever wanted – a career I'm proud of, the financial security to choose the roles I want and keep my family comfortable.

Everything is perfect.

Well, almost everything.

* * *

**24 Hours Earlier**

_"It's a big, big, big, big day!" My publicist, Effie Trinket, chirps as I approach her in the Capitol Films lobby. Her voice echoes loudly through the large hall, causing me to wince slightly, but I give her the best smile I can muster anyway._

_The building is opulent to say the least – wall to wall marble with gold-plated elevator doors and the faint scent of roses everywhere._

_Effie gives me a couple of air kisses – a Hollywood standard – but avoids any further affection or physical contact. Despite the fact that we've worked together since I booked the role in The Space Between, we've never exactly warmed to each other, mostly due to our polar opposite personalities._

_"It's not everyday that a young starlet gets to meet the president of Capitol Films. I bet you're just so excited you can't stand it."_

_Her too-high heels – bright orange, to match her dress suit and purse – click loudly on the floor as we make our way to the elevators._

_"Yeah, I'm excited," I say evenly. "Why am I here again?"_

_"Oh, just some shop talk before you set out on your big, big adventure!" She said as we stepped onto the elevator. But something in her tone set me on edge a little. Why would I need to talk shop with the president of the biggest film company in the world?_

_We travel up 12 floors to the penthouse area of the Capitol Films building. As soon as the doors open, I can see why Effie was so excited for us to be here. Large windows line the open space, providing a gorgeous view of LA and the Hollywood sign. It's a view only the most powerful person in the film industry could afford. _

_Effie sighs happily. "I just love this." She looks at me, her eyes wide with excitement. "Anyway, why don't you have a seat in the waiting area? I'll let Mr. Snow's secretary know you're here."_

_The waiting area is huge – three sets of plush wraparound couches with a gorgeous slate coffee table in the middle stacked with magazines. I plop down on the nearest couch, grab a copy of __**Entertainment Today**__ and begin to flip through it absently. The first page I open to displays candid photos of celebrities attending various events around town – and front and center are none other than me and Peeta Mellark, my Space Between co-star, standing and smiling together at a charity event._

_"That's a good picture of you."_

_I jump at the voice behind me and turn quickly to see Peeta standing behind me._

_"Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." He gestures toward the coffee station behind him, and then to the to-go cup he holds in his other hand. "Guess you were as blown away by the view as I was. I was over there getting caffeinated. Sorry for the heart attack."_

_I can't help but smile at him. "I'll forgive you this time."_

_He grins back. "It is a good picture though. Me, not so much. I look a little goofy."_

_I look back down at the picture and have to disagree. His deep blue eyes stand out against his pale gray button down. And the lopsided smile plastered on his face is both approachable and slightly sexy without looking affected. He's everything a young movie star should be._

_In contrast, while the pale yellow gown I wear is stunning, the smile on my face looks a little forced – as it often does. Though I've been on countless red carpets and attended a dizzying number of events, I've never quite gotten used to the most Hollywood part of Hollywood. And it shows in the unease I display when I pose for the camera._

_"You here to see Mr. Snow too?"_

_I shrug. "I guess. I didn't know you'd be here today."_

_"Just finished talking to him a minute ago."_

_I don't know Peeta that well – but he's one of the few people I've met in Hollywood that I actually really like. He's funny, kind and can talk to anybody about just about anything. Plus, when he's around, you really get the feeling that he cares about you and what you have to say. That's a rarity here._

_But we didn't spend much time together during the first filming - our characters don't meet until over halfway through the story so we didn't have too many scenes together. Still, I know him well enough to know that it's weird for him give such a non-committal response._

_"So what's the big deal?" I ask, attempting a conspiratorial tone. "Are we in trouble or something?"_

_He smiles at me, but the expression doesn't quite reach his eyes. "No, not in trouble."_

_An uneasy silence falls between us, and I start to feel even more nervous. The phone he's holding buzzes and he glances down at it. "My ride's here. Are you flying out tomorrow, too?"_

_"Bright and early."_

_He nods. "I'll see you tomorrow then."_

_As he walks away, Effie approaches, bubbling with nervous energy._

_"Mr. Snow will see you now," she says proudly. Then she lowers her voice and looks me square in the eye. "Be. Nice." _

_I can't help but feel intimidated as I walk into Coriolanus Snow's office and the large wooden doors shut behind me. The walls are lined with bookshelves; the shelves filled with scripts and award statues from his storied career. Before he rose to the top at Capitol Films, he was a successful producer. He knew what it took to make a movie a blockbuster. I guess that's why he's at the top now._

_On the other side of the room, the older man sits behind his expansive oak desk, his hands folded underneath his chin. He watches me as I stand near the doors, unsure of whether I should approach him._

_"Good afternoon, Ms. Everdeen. It's a pleasure to see you today."_

_His voice is cool, soft, but still sends an unexpected chill down my spine._

_"Thank you so much for seeing me. It's an honor."_

_"Please, sit."_

_I do as he asks, quickly arranging myself in the large but comfortable chair on the other side of his desk. Now that I'm closer to him, I can see his features clearly – striking blue eyes, pale white hair and paper-delicate skin. If I had to guess his age, I'd say he was approaching 70. Yet he still seems largely untouched by the physical ramifications of aging. Few wrinkles, shockingly white teeth. It's a little unnerving._

_"I must congratulate you on your recent accolades," he says smoothly. "You're such a bright young talent. We're so lucky to have you as a part of the Capitol Films family."_

_Though his words are kind, I can feel a tension radiating off of him that makes me feel as though he's being ingenuine._

_"Thank you." I say, keeping my tone neutral. I gesture awkwardly toward the display of awards behind him. "It's nothing compared to your achievements, I'm sure."_

_His eyes narrow as he smiles at me and I begin to feel exceedingly uncomfortable._

_"Yes, well…" He chuckles softly. "That's why they pay me the big bucks."_

_It's silent for a moment._

_"Do you know why I asked you come here today, Katniss?"_

_I just shake my head, my throat dry._

_Mr. Snow slides a magazine – a different copy of the same __**Entertainment Today**__ I read in the waiting room – across his desk. It's open, earmarked to the page that shows Peeta and I._

_"You and Mr. Mellark are quite the rage in town these days," he says. "All the tabloids and teeny-boppers can't stop talking about your relationship."_

_I can't help but raise my eyebrow. "It's just gossip. We barely know each other."_

_Again, he chuckles. "Well, I think they were just so inspired by your chemistry when they saw our little movie last year. They've even given you a nickname – what is it, Everlark? You can't deny, the way you two came together on screen was pretty remarkable."_

_He's not wrong. Audiences and critics both agreed almost universally - Peeta and I make a stellar on-screen couple. I chalked it up to Seneca's directing – the lighting, the sound, the camera angle and the way he pushed us to find the desperation in our characters' need to connect. Whatever it was, the few scenes we shared were electric. After the movie came out, we made several Hollywood publication lists for "Steamiest On-Screen Couple," "Hottest Hollywood Loves of All Time," and so on. And that was just from a couple of scenes and one on-screen kiss._

_"We're actors," I say uncomfortably, still not sure what he's implying._

_"You are, indeed. Great actors at that. Your award shelf and legions of fans can attest, I'm sure." He folds his hands into his lap. "Unfortunately, Ms. Everdeen, your persona when you aren't on screen is proving to be a bit… problematic."_

_I try to swallow my sigh. I know what he means. The forced smiles on camera. The awkward red carpet interviews. I've always been lauded for my ability to transform into a character, but when it comes to interacting with other people and putting myself on display, I struggle tremendously._

_"I'm sorry?" I don'texactly mean for it to come out as a question - but I don't elaborate, either, as I wait to see what he'll say next._

_"No need for apologies. We simply need to find a solution. A way to make you more likeable." He reaches across his desk and taps his index finger on the magazine photo. "And luckily, it should be an easy fix."_

_We lock eyes and he can clearly see the confusion in mine because he continues immediately._

_"We – the producers of the film, myself, a few other key people, feel that it would be best if you and Mr. Mellark do your best to play up this attention in your love affair." His face remains passive as he looks at me. "Give the audience a little bit of a taste of what they're hungering for."_

_I can't believe what I'm hearing. Is he really asking me to fake a romance with Peeta Mellark?_

_"But we're not –" I protest._

_"Obviously, Ms. Everdeen. But as you already stated, you're both excellent actors. I'm sure it will require minimal effort on your part."_

_"What –" I stammer, but then purse my lips shut for a moment and try to get my rising anger under control. I can tell Mr. Snow is not the type of person I want to argue with. "What exactly do you expect us to do?"_

_He smiles at me again, his lips spreading across his face in an expression that conveys no warmth. "Be affectionate with one another when you're in public. Hold hands, lock eyes, share a kiss or two. You know there are paparazzi everywhere waiting to catch your next moves."_

_"But why?"_

_He sighs impatiently. "Katniss, the audience we target – young teenagers – are so easily distracted. Your first movie did quite well – better than we expected – but we need to keep this franchise alive to meet the substantial investment we're making in it. There's a lot at stake here. More than you know."_

_I can only guess what he means. The entire cast and crew are about to embark on a long journey across two continents and several countries to make the next chapter of the film come to life. That can't be cheap._

_"Not to mention you two are about to go off the grid to film for several months - effectively removing you from the public's eye, and therefore their interest. By the time you get back, they'll have all moved on to the next new thing. And we'll be scrambling to win back their attention." He taps his fingers against his desk then, almost rhythmically, like a clock. "That is, unless you two can do something to keep them intrigued."_

_The flush in my cheeks has to be apparent to him. I've never had a serious relationship, always hated public displays of affection – and now he's asking me - requiring me - to lie to the entire world and pretend that Peeta Mellark is my boyfriend?_

_"I don't think I can do this." I say to him, my voice quiet but firm. "I don't see why we have to."_

_"Do I need to remind you, Ms. Everdeen, that you signed a very strict contract for all four films associated with this franchise?" As if he was expecting my reaction, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a copy of my contract. He then flips through the pages – slowly, methodically, until he finds what he's looking for, and begins to read out loud._

_"The undersigned will heretofore perform any duties related to publicity of this film and any other films within the franchise as deemed fit by Capitol Films and its subsidiaries. If the undersigned fails to perform these duties, they will be subject to compensate Capitol Films for any lost profits as deemed appropriate by President Coriolanus Snow."_

_So I need to do what he says or they'll sue me. He looks up at me, his eyes cold. "Would you like to see your signature?"_

_I'm trembling now, but trying desperately to hide it. "I remember signing it."_

_"I think we can come to an agreement here, then." He says, setting the contract down. "I wouldn't want to have to reach out to your loved ones to try to persuade you. Like say for instance, your poor mother. Or Primrose."_

_My heart actually stops for a moment when my sister's name leaves his lips._

_When I moved to Los Angeles from Pennsylvania a few years ago, I brought my sister with me and used our entire savings to put her in an exclusive private boarding school. After everything we'd been through at home, my only goal was to give her the chance I didn't have – the chance for a happy life._

_Since I became famous, I've done everything I can to keep her hidden from the limelight and out of the drama of Hollywood. To give her normalcy and happiness - everthing she didn't have back at home._

_And now this man I barely know is trying to use her against me – to expose her and our painful past just to exploit me._

_Leaving me with no choice._

_"No," I say as calmly as I can manage. "That won't be necessary."_

_And then that smile again – calculating and threatening. "Wonderful. Let's discuss the details, then, shall we?"_

* * *

"Ok, I'm not actually going to carry you to the car, too. Get up, big shot." Gale says, and I slide off my now fastened suitcase so he can drag it off my bed.

"This sucks." I say, lying back on the bed.

"Stop whining," he replies. "You're about to spend several months jet-setting around the world, eating awesome food at craft services and making a movie that's going to make you even more wildly famous than you already are."

"Yeah, but." I sigh, knowing how obnoxious I have to sound. "I'm sorry. You're right. I'm awful. I'm not going to complain." I narrowed me eyes at him. "It still doesn't mean I'm happy about this."

Gale sits down next to me. "I get it." His voice is softer now. "Not an ideal situation. But it could be worse. It could be Finnick Odair."

I shake my head. "It just feels wrong. Like I'm whoring myself out – like I don't get a say in my love life."

"What love life?" Gale nudges me and gives me a sideways smile, which I can't help but return. Because he's right. I've never cared about dating – my focus has always been on starting my career and keeping my sister healthy and happy.

"Look, we're in agreement. It's bullshit. Totally ridiculous. But when it's all said and done, will it really matter? You'll play lovebirds for the camera, people will freak out and fawn... then they'll forget and move onto something else and you guys can get on with your lives."

I sigh. "I guess it's not like I have time to date anyone now anyway."

"Assuming anyone would want to date you. You'd be a nightmare. Trust me. I know. I've seen what you do to a tube of toothpaste."

I glare at him. "I could kick you out of this house, you know. You and your stupid cat."

We laugh together, for the first time that afternoon. Then Gale stares back at me for a minute. He holds my gaze with his deep grey eyes. And he opens his mouth, then shuts it - like he wants to say something but can't. Instead, he pulls back from me slightly and stands up.

"People in Hollywood have done this since there **was** a Hollywood – faked whole relationships, marriages even, for the sake of the show. It's all part of the game." Gale is always so rational. It's really kind-of annoying. "Pretending to be in love with Peeta Mellark is not going to be the worst thing you ever do in your life." He looks down at me. "You already did it on screen once. How much different can it be?"

I know he's right.

So if I could fake it the first time – and I'm about to fake it with him for the next movie anyway, what's the big problem?

For one, it was the way Mr. Snow had stared me down. Like he couldn't wait to watch us squirm.

But something else, too. I can't figure it out yet.

"I'm starving," Gale say. "Want some of that leftover Thai?"

I nod and fall back onto the bed, once again grabbing my tablet. I scroll through my Twitter feed again and stop when I see a familiar name.

_** PeetaMellark**__ On my way to the airport. Adventure of a lifetime… take two! #starsfalling #luckyman_

I can only imagine Snow gave him the same rundown – and that he'd been equally apprehensive. But he must have agreed, too, or Snow wouldn't have bothered to ask me.

Why? What dirt did the studio have on him? And why hadn't he warned me what we were up against?

Anger and betrayal bubble up inside me. It's going to be difficult to even look Peeta in the eye right now, let alone pretend I'm in love with him.

The next tweet that catches my eye is from blogger extraordinaire, talk show host and number one Everlark fan, Caesar Flickerman.

_** CaesarFlickrman**__ Check out this xclusive interview with PeetaMellark. He dishes on life, love and that special co-star… /everlarkluv_

I click on the link and the video starts almost instantly. Peeta sits with Caesar in his interview studio, leaned back on the plush couch, looking completely relaxed and happy. How does he do it? He makes it look easy.

Caesar, as plastic and fake-tanned as ever, leans in close to Peeta as though he's afraid he'll miss a single syllable.

"So you're about to start filming _Stars Falling_. Four months. Three countries. Are there words to describe the excitement you feel right now, Peeta?"

Peeta grins back at him. "I don't know if there are. This is just an incredible opportunity. To work with a great new director, Plutarch Heavensbee. To see places I've never been… and the script, the character. It's just a dream come true."

"Not to mention that co-star… how is Katniss?" Caesar asks, all but winking at him. The expression on Peeta's face never changes, but a warmth enters his eyes at the sound of my name.

"Katniss is… Katniss. She's amazing. Anyone who spends any time with her knows that." He looks almost bashful. "I'm so excited to work with her again. We'll be seeing a lot more of each other this time around. We've got some really exciting scenes coming up."

"Not to mention the behind the scenes stuff you two have going on," Caesar said, wiggling his eyebrows.

Peeta shrugs. "I love every second I get to spend with Katniss. I'm lucky to know her. She's one of a kind. I've known it since the first time I saw her."

Caesar sighs happily and looks back to the camera. "Stay tuned for more with Peeta, including where he's looking forward to visiting the most when the Stars Falling crew starts filming next week."

And the video is over.

While Peeta did nothing to confirm or deny a relationship between us, he seemed to have appeased Caesar. And all I can think is that we've known about our fake relationship for barely a day, and he's already managed to set up an interview and do exactly what Snow asked of me - keep our fans intrigued. Keep them wanting more. He's way better at playing this game than I am.

I look back at my feed and notice that CapitolFilms has retweeted both Caesar's video and Peeta's latest update.

It's going to be a long few months.

A half hour later, Gale and I are gathering my luggage to carry to the car when there's a knock at our door.

I open it to find Effie, dressed in a gold couture jogging suit. "You could answer your phone once and awhile, Katniss." She say, bitingly, the smile never leaving her face. "Time to go! We've got to be to the airport in an hour!"

"But –" I say as she pulls me out the door. Two men I've never seen – Capitol Film interns, most likely – walk into my home to pick up my things. Effie circles her arm in mine and drags me toward the street, where a large limousine waits. I glance back at Gale, who stands in our doorway, a stunned expression on his face.

"Oh, you'll be back before you know it!" Effie says cheerily. "Goodbye, Gabe!"

All I can do is give him a wavering smile. Gale waves back to me. "Call me when you get to the airport!"

In what seems like only seconds, I'm whisked down the front walkway of our small rental house and into the limousine. The inside is cushy and luxurious - black leather seats and mahogany finish. On one end sits Haymitch Abernathy, my prickly agent, nursing a drink.

On the other sits Peeta Mellark. He smiles at me, but I can see he looks every bit as apprehensive as I feel.

"Hey, Katniss. Ready to go?"

- end part one -


	2. Cause I won't remember

I don't feel like talking much on the way to the airport. And luckily, Effie is eager to recite every minute of our itinerary for the next four months, so I don't have to. I stare out the window as our limousine crawls through traffic, half-listening to her chatter on.

"We should be at LAX no later than 11:30 – though Lord only knows if that will happen. Just look at this mess – it's like a parking lot." She clicks her tongue – tsk tsk – a move she reserves only for the most egregious frustrations in her life.

"The plane for Buffalo takes off at 2:30 PM, and we'll land there at 8:30 PM our time, 5:30 their time…"

My phone buzzes in my lap.

_**Gale **__So much for my airport traffic mixed CD._

I can't help but muster a smile as I text him back.

_This is bullshit._

"… two weeks shooting in upstate New York, in many of the same locations where we were last time, but you know that…"

_It was a little abrupt, I'll give u that. U ok?_

I don't know how to respond to that. I'm being whisked away with my pretend lover who I barely know. I didn't get to say goodbye to my best friend, and it will be months before I'm back home. I've never been one for sentimentality, but I feel a little sick to my stomach.

_I'll be fine._

There's no point in worrying him now. What can he do?

"… We'll land in Ireland on October 1st and spend the month filming there before moving on to film in India, and finally, after a lovely holiday break back in Los Angeles, we'll travel up to Vancouver to finish…"

I manage a glance to my right, where Haymitch sits, glowering at Effie. He catches my gaze, holds up his index finger and twirls it around slowly, sarcastically, mouthing the word "Wooooo…"

And suddenly, I'm glad he's here with me. I cover my mouth to mask my laugh.

"Something to add, Haymitch?" Effie stops suddenly, shooting daggers with her eyes at my agent. Just like with me, Effie's never exactly enjoyed the company of my agent. She tolerates him, like most people in the industry do, because he's great at his job and he has an enviable number of connections.

"I'm just so excited," he answers dryly.

This time, the laughter comes from the other side of the limo. I glance over at Peeta, who's grinning unabashedly. It's irritating – I'm still angry at him for keeping me in the dark about Snow's request. But here he is, charming and likeable and laughing at Haymitch when I'm usually the only person who does.

_Ugh._

Effie huffs, clearly torn between scolding the three of us and trying to get us back on track. "Well, I for one don't think it's very funny. We have a lot to do in the next few months, and the success of one of the largest and most expensive film franchises of all time depends on your punctuality!"

For her sake, we try to pull ourselves together, but I glance around the limo and see both Haymitch and Peeta still holding back smiles. She purses her lips and continues on.

"Now tonight when we land in Ithaca, I'm afraid to say you'll have very little time to settle in. The local film board is holding a gala event at Cinemapolis to celebrate our arrival and attendance will be mandatory." She looks pointedly at me, as though she knows I'm the only one in the vehicle who would even consider blowing it off.

"She'll be there," Haymitch drawls, downing the rest of his drink. "If only for the refreshments."

I glance over at Haymitch, again feeling a surge of gratitude at his presence. He's often rude, always uncouth, and after three years as my agent, I still feel as though I know next to nothing about him.

But he's always been my fiercest advocate – negotiating generous salaries, doing damage control when I come across as unpleasant in an article or public appearance, and most importantly, fighting hard to keep Prim out of the public eye.

It's only as I examine the older man beside me that it occurs to me that this is the first time he's ever accompanied me to the airport. Before I can mull over what that mean, we've arrived at LAX and Effie is hurriedly extracting herself from the limo.

I glance over at Peeta in a brief moment of panic, and my uncertainty over what to do next overrides my anger at him. How do couples act when they get to an airport? Do they hold hands? Embrace passionately? Play tonsil hockey while waiting to get through the TSA line?

He locks eyes with me – his expression warm but mirroring my own lack of confidence. "After you," he says quietly, gesturing toward the limo door. I nod stiffly and climb out of the vehicle. The combination of the quick exit and the bright sunlight sets me off kilter, and I stumble slightly when my feet hit the pavement. Luckily, Peeta has climbed out behind me, and he gently places his hands on my shoulders to steady me.

"Careful," he murmurs, his strong hands lingering on the tops of my arms for just a moment.

"Sorry," I mutter, but I can't bring myself to look at him. His hands drop to his sides.

"Don't worry about it," he replies quietly as we walk through the crowd, side-by-side but not touching.

In the last year, we've been through press tours, premieres and various other events. We've posed and smiled and laughed together dozens of times before. But now, knowing that the world – that Snow – is watching us, it feels like every glance, every touch, is painfully stilted and forced.

Some couple we are.

I try to gather my thoughts while we wait for our luggage to be unloaded from the car.

I'm glad the people around us seem to be more preoccupied with getting to their gate on time than ogling the young celebrities in their midst. Because if the last five minutes are any indication, Peeta and I will definitely need to work on our off-screen chemistry if were going to pull this off.

A few minutes later, a cursory glance at my phone tells me I was wrong on both counts. I don't know whether to feel revolted or relieved.

_** CaesarFlickrman **__Ooooh boy. #Everlark spotted snuggling outside LAX. B still my ever-loving 3._

People these days exaggerate a lot of things, but the endless monotony of getting through airport security is not one of them.

To his credit, Haymitch is able to talk to me privately as we wait in line And he answers my questions without me even having to ask them. Peeta is crouched near his luggage, double checking that he has his passport, and Effie is typing frantically on her own smartphone.

My agent approaches from behind me and taps me on the shoulder and I turn to look at him. He moves his face closer to me, his voice low and words quick.

"You talked to Snow yesterday." It's not a question. I nod in response.

"You knew?" It comes out accusatory, and I can't say I feel entirely bad about that.

"I found out after you did or I would have warned you. But I'm not surprised." He scratches the stubble on his face, and I see for the first time how tired he looks – bags drooping low under his bloodshot eyes. "Listen, sweetheart, I don't like it either but that man can make your life very, very difficult if you get on his bad side."

"Haymitch, why is he doing this?"

He shrugs in response. "Why isn't he? He didn't want you in this role to begin with. He wanted some other starlet he's invested a lot of time and money in. But Seneca Crane wouldn't have it any other way."

This is news to me, but it definitely explains we have a new director now. Seneca defied Snow. And so he was replaced. But Snow can't replace me. So he has to control me.

"So he's punishing me for something I had no say in. That's fair."

"He has a reputation to protect and he'll do anything to keep it. Before this movie came out, a lot of insiders said it was a huge gamble. He proved them wrong. But anything that threatens that?" He shakes his head. "Snow is getting older. He's on his way out. This whole film series is his legacy. He won't let anyone destroy it."

I try to keep my voice even, but I feel it again – the anger at how ridiculous this whole situation is. "How is me being grumpy in a couple of interviews going to bring down the most powerful man in Hollywood?"

Haymitch's gray eyes flash something before he speaks. It almost looks like sympathy. The smile on his face is wry and unsettling. "It's not your mood, Katniss. It's who you are, what you represent. He's old-school Hollywood, where you play your part – you smile and simper and ooze charm, whether you're on or off-screen. If you can't do that, you can't be trusted." He pats my back good-naturedly.

"I can't be trusted? Peeta knew about this before any of us but he didn't tell me."

"Peeta is in the same boat as you, sweetheart. He's the closest thing you have to an ally right now besides me."

"Please. Being a movie star is practically in his DNA. He's like the most movie-starish movie star I've ever seen. Just look at him."

Both our gazes fall to my co-star, who's very existence seems to prove my point. He's easily chatting with our director of photography, Cressida. I take him in – the tight gray t-shirt that fits him perfectly, the easy smile, the perfectly tousled blonde hair, the astonishingly clear blue eyes. He laughs at something she says and then seems to sense we're both looking at him. His eyes lock with mine and I find myself blushing and look away.

"You'd be surprised."

This intrigues me, but I'm too wary of where we are and how much we've already said in public to ask what he means.

"Either way, being in love with that boy is in your best interest."

"I'm not in love with him," I insist in a hushed tone.

"Whoa, whoa." Haymitch chuckles. "Believe me, you don't need to convince me of that. But let me just break this down for you. Kids love your movies, sure. But they're not too sure about you, yet. This icy exterior you've built up, it's not going to win you any more fans. When you add Peeta into the mix, he thaws you out. People warm up to you. They go see your movies and buy the magazines when you're on the cover. And remember to go see the movies that you do after this one. This makes you a lot of money. You can send your amazing little sister to Harvard. She becomes a brain doctor and you live happily ever after in a cabin in the woods where you can be miserable and alone to your heart's content."

I stare at him longer than I mean to, letting his words sink in. And I remember that I kept Haymitch as my agent, long after dozens of more high-profile names in the business came calling, because I knew I could trust him to be honest with me. If he really thinks that going along with Snow's demands is for the best, I'll have to believe him for now.

I look ahead of me and see that I'm almost to the front of the line – where Haymitch and I will have to part ways. "You know you could have just told me all of this over the phone."

He grins at me. "Then I would have missed the free booze in the limo."

"Any other advice?"

He cocks his head toward where Peeta is standing behind Effie. "Don't take this out on that kid. He didn't ask for it any more than you did. You two are gonna need each other."

I shrug noncommittally at this, but can't begin to understand what he means by his last statement. I've made it through three years in Hollywood without leaning on anyone, even Gale. Why would I start now?

"I'll be in touch." Haymitch says. "Make sure you're staying out of trouble."

To make sure I'm playing the game.

He ruffles my hair affectionately, then pulls me into a sort-of awkward hug. I'm just beginning to return the embrace when I hear his last – and clearly most important – words to me.

"He's always watching, Katniss. Don't forget."

Our flight boards right on time – much to Effie's relief – and before long, I find myself trying to relax in a spacious, comfy first-class seat.

A year and a half ago, I'd never even been on an airplane. Now I'm traveling across the country – soon, halfway across the world.

I think of Prim – though I try not to too often, because I miss her too much – and how blown away she would be at all of this – the leather reclining seats, the chocolate-covered strawberries, the television screen bigger than the one we'd had in our living room that's only for me.

I pull out my phone and take a picture of myself with a goofy expression. Then I text it to her with a message.

_On my way to New York – flying first class. Can't wait 'til you can do this with me. STUDY HARD._

I hold the phone close to my chest after I hear the soft whooshing sound that means the message has sent.

I miss her so, so much.

A few seconds later, it vibrates and I look down eagerly.

She's sent me a picture back – her bright blue eyes alight, slackjawed with mock amazement.

_**Prim **__Snag me some pretzels!_

I grin and lean my head back against the cushy seat, closing my eyes.

I must have been exhausted from tossing and turning the night before, because I doze off and miss most of the flight.

I'm momentarily disoriented, and glance around the first class area frantically before I realize where I am. As I look around, I realize that our team – myself, Peeta, Effie, Cressida and a couple of other people on the crew – are the only people in the entire first class section. And most of them are preoccupied, looking at phones or binders full of production notes. Peeta is sitting next to me, though there's enough room between us so that I don't feel as awkward as I did this morning

He's engrossed in the iPad on his lap – his eyes scanning over a block of text, maybe a novel. His unruly blonde hair looks almost strewn across his forehead, and he's biting his thumbnail as he reads.

And while I was so angry with him earlier today for keeping me in the dark, I find that my earlier conversation with Haymitch and the quiet lull of the plane have quelled the rage inside me.

I think back to what my agent told me – that Peeta and I would need each other. That he was my ally. And up until yesterday, I would have considered him a friend – casual, sure. But a friend nonetheless.

I decide that it's not going to hurt to at least try to be friendly with him. And I decide I might as well start now.

"What are you reading?"

He startles slightly at my voice, but smiles when his eyes meet mine.

"_The Great Gatsby_."

"We read that my senior year," I say.

He shrugs. "I never really got around to it. But I'm intrigued so far. The characters are obviously pretty flawed. But Fitzgerald really had a way with words… you can't help but get dragged into the story, you know?"

I have to admit I'm kind-of impressed. The other actors my age that I've interacted with probably hadn't even heard of F. Scott Fitzgerald, let alone read his – or any other – books voluntarily.

"Let me know what you think when you're done with it," I say evenly.

"I'll keep you posted," he replies with a grin. The conversation lulls, but I find myself still looking at him, trying to find the words, to start the conversation that's been lingering unspoken between us. Ever the wordsmith, he gets there first.

"Listen, Katniss." He says, his voice low. "I'm really sorry I –" He takes a deep breath. "I didn't sleep last night. I kept thinking I should call you – talk to you about all this – but then by the time I'd convinced myself to do it, it was after midnight and I didn't want to wake you."

I shrug. "I didn't sleep either."

"This is…" He runs his hand through his hair as he shakes his head. "I told Snow no. I said I didn't want to do it. But he told me you'd already agreed. When I saw you in the lobby after…"

I feel anger again, but this time it's all for the man who bullied us both into this situation.

"Well, the man knows how to get what he wants." I say, not even attempting to hide my bitterness.

"And I want you to know that interview that Caesar had on today… I recorded that over a week ago. Way before I even knew about this fake romance thing. He's obviously just been sitting on the footage."

I can't tell in the dim light of the plane, but it almost looks like he's blushing slightly.

"If you don't want to do this –"

I cut him off. "Haymitch think it's for the best." When he doesn't respond, I press on. "What did your agent say?"

Peeta shrugs. "Nothing, really. She told me to have a good trip."

Odd. I can't help but thinking. Why would Haymitch have gone to such trouble to convince me when his agent couldn't seem to care less?

"Well," I say with a sigh. "What do you think?"

"I mean… it will be weird. I barely know you."

"I'm not easy to get to know," I admit.

"I like a challenge," he replies smoothly. "What do you think?"

"I feel used." I say honestly, though I speak quickly when I see the look of concern cross his face. "Not by you. By him. By all of them. It's not you I have the problem with," I finally manage to get out.

"I get it." He nods. He studies my face for a minute, then a soft smile crosses his lips. "I think we're about to have one of the best experiences of our lives. And I'm not going to let some power-hungry studio head ruin that for me."

"But I kept thinking last night, you know… this really is the opportunity of a lifetime. To see the world. To travel – to do whatever we want when we're in a completely foreign place."

"Yeah, with Effie Trinket and Caesar Flickerman watching our every move," I say shortly.

He shrugs. "Who cares? Let them watch."

I can't explain the warmth that travels through me as I watch him chew his thumbnail again, his blue eyes never leaving mine. So I just nod, because I know he's right.

"This trip could be incredible. I've already got a list of like, twenty places I want to see. I'm not going to let stupid Hollywood drama ruin that for me. And I don't want it to ruin it for you, either. This could be the only time either of us ever get to do anything like this. In ten years, we'll be old and boring and married with kids."

"I don't want to have kids." I say, before I realize the words have left my mouth.

He raises his eyebrows and chuckles. "Okay, I'll have kids and you'll have… cats."

"I hate cats." I reply evenly. The smile that comes with his response is contagious.

"See, I already know more about you than I did five minutes ago. This is a good start."

We're quiet for a minute.

"Can we just agree we won't do anything the other isn't comfortable with?" His face is serious now. "If we have to do this, we do it together. As a team.

"Deal." I say, and I mean it.

The Ithaca Thompkins Regional Airport is surprisingly crowded for not being a main hub. Peeta walks beside me, my carry-on bag slung over his shoulder. It was his idea, and I have to admit it's a good one. It's enough to leave Caesar salivating for a while, at least.

We stand in a waiting area while Effie confirms our transportation arrangements. And we only stand there for a moment before a little girl – she can't be older than 11 or 12 – approaches us, hands and voice shaking.

"Are you Katniss Everdeen?" Her voice is almost a whisper of awe.

I smile gently at her. "I am."

Her eyes get wider, if that's possible. "You're… you're my favorite actress."

My stomach ties in knots, as it always does when a fan approaches me. Part of me doesn't know what to say to them – I'm so afraid of disappointing them by being… well, me. The other part is still amazed that anyone could react to me this way.

"Thank you so much," I say genuinely. "What's your name?"

For some reason, this seems to switch something on in her, and what comes out next is a jumble of words and enthusiasm. "Megan. I love The Space Between. It's my favorite book. You're so beautiful. Are you really dating Peeta Mellark? He's sooooo handsome. I have his poster in my room."

I laugh, because I don't know what to address first. "Well, Peeta is here with me. Do you want to meet him?"

She turns scarlet and seems to freeze up. But Peeta, who has been standing beside me, has either been watching our exchange or has preternaturally good timing because he wanders over at that exact moment.

"Who's this?" He asks, grinning.

"This is Megan," I respond.

"Hi Megan," Peeta's voice is smooth and warm – and I see the young girl visibly relax as he bends down slightly to be closer to her face. "I'm Peeta."

"I know who you are," she almost gasps. "You're my favorite actor."

"Well, I'm really honored." He said. He then looks back up at me, before his gaze returns back to her. "Has anyone ever told you how much you look like Katniss?"

Her gasp is audible. But I can see what he's getting at. She's wearing her hair in a loose side braid, the way Tessa Treadway does in most of Space Between. She's also wearing a brown and green shirt that looks a lot like the government-issued uniform my character wears in a lot of the first film. I realize in that moment what Peeta has already put together – this little girl is trying to dress just like me.

"He's right," I say. "Your hair looks awesome. Did you do it yourself?"

"My mom did." She says, pointing a shaking finger to a woman standing a few feet away.

"Well, I think a picture is in order." Peeta says. "We need the photographic proof. You two are basically twins."

Megan calls her mom over, who seems to be mildly starstruck herself. She happily hands her phone over to Peeta while I gesture for Megan to come and stand next to me. I put my arm around her and we smile together as Peeta snaps the picture.

We sign autographs, and then Effie is calling us over, telling us it's time to go.

"It was so great to meet you Megan," I say, genuinely. Her happiness is so apparent that it's impossible to feel anything else.

She quickly throws her arms around my waist and squeezes tight. "Thank you so much."

We make our way outside, where another limo awaits. And while most of the ride happens in comfortable silence, Peeta can't help but lean over and show me his phone.

"Looks like that little girl's mom already posted that picture on Twitter."

I look at my own phone, and locate the tweet about us in my own replies.

_** IthacaMomof4 **__Just met KatnissEverdeen and PeetaMellark. They were so unbelievably nice to Megan – totally made her day. /194320453_

In the photo, I'm smile widely – naturally - next to the jubilant young girl. I look so unlike most other pictures I've seen of myself recently - I look like myself.

"You were great with that little girl," he says quietly. "Seriously."

"You weren't bad yourself," I reply with a smile.

I welcome the comfortable silence that falls between us as I gaze out the window at the dense foliage and green grass as we speed by. And I try to decipher what I'm feeling. A sense of unexpected comfort, a growing excitement about the weeks to come… and all this because of the boy I'd have happily written off just hours ago. But he's shown himself to be trustworthy, someone I'd happily count as a friend. Someone I'm happy will be with me over the next four months. Part of me is relieved – it will definitely be easier to pretend to be in love with him.

But I can't let myself get too close. And he's just made that a little bit harder.


	3. A six-inch valley through

Effie wasn't kidding when she said we wouldn't have time to settle in. I barely have a chance to drop my things in my hotel room and dive through the shower before there's a knock on my hotel room door. I assume it's Effie, here to remind me we have a big, big, big night and I need to start getting ready.

"Hang on!" I cry, making no attempt to hide my exasperation as I frantically brush my teeth. I walk to the door and open it, only to have my heart rise happily into my throat when I see who's on the other side.

"Cinna!" I gasp, my mouth still full of toothpaste.

The man before me looks amazing – as usual – in a soft, black tunic shirt and amber-colored jeans. The broad grin that spreads across his face tells me he's happy to see me, too.

"Surprise." He says softly, as he enters the room. His arms are full – a dress wrapped in plastic and a carryon luggage bag that I can only imagine contains the beauty supplies he's used more times than I can count to get me red carpet ready. I dash into the bathroom to finish brushing my teeth as he unloads what he brought.

"I can't believe you're here," I call in between spitting and rinsing. Since I became famous and started dropping his name at award shows and gala events, Cinna has been one of the most sought-after stylists in the industry. We barely have time to see each other.

He appears in the threshold and leans casually against it. The gold eyeliner that sparsely covers his eyes glitters subtly under the harsh fluorescent light of the bathroom. "I was in the city working a fashion show. When Haymitch told me you had an event tonight, I figured it would be my last chance to see you before you head overseas. How could I pass that up?"

"Isn't New York City, like, three hours away?"

Cinna shrugs. "It was a scenic drive."

Without hesitation, I move to give Cinna a long hug. "It's so good to see you," I say into his ear.

"It's always good to see you, spitfire." He murmurs in reply, rubbing my back. We pull away to look at each other, and his eyes search mine briefly. "Did you talk to Peeta?"

I nod, understanding immediately that Haymitch must have told him about everything. "Yes. On the plane."

He brushes my hair back from my face, cupping my cheek gently in his cheek. "I'm so sorry this is happening to you."

I offer a thin smile in return. "Shouldn't you be congratulating me? I'm in love."

He moves away then, toward the bed, where he begins to rifle through the arsenal he brought with him. "How does Peeta feel about it?"

"Same as me," I reply, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "He's not happy about it. But he knows we have to. He said he wants us to trust each other. To be a team."

I see a smile pass across Cinna's lips. "He's a smart kid." He turns to face me, holding two different eye shadow palettes up to my face. "I'm glad it's him."

I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"The thing I like best about you is the thing a lot of people in this town can't stand." He's working now, pulling out foundations and powders and liners. "Your individuality. Your resilience. Your fire. It's a threat. I had a feeling that Snow and his people would do something to try to control you. I can't say I'm surprised it's this. I'm glad they chose someone decent."

_Decent._ I let the word roll through my mind, considering its worth. If there were a single word I'd use to describe Peeta, as much as I know him, it would definitely be decent.

If I've learned anything in my life, it's that decency is hard to come by.

"I'm glad it's him, too." I say, almost in a whisper. If Cinna hears, he doesn't respond. He knows he doesn't need to. "Have you seen this before? What Snow's asking us do?"

"I've heard stories." Cinna replies as he lays out his choices on the vanity on the other side of the room. He pats the chair that sits in front of it, and I move to sit there, facing the mirror. He stands behind me. "Leading men who liked men. Some were coerced into marrying women. Of course, those marriages never lasted." He moves my hair away from my face, so it cascades down my shoulders. "Actresses who had drug problems and needed an image makeover."

"When does it end?" I sound more vulnerable than I expect.

"When they decide it does." He rubs my shoulders gently.

And with that, he gets to work.

Before I met Cinna, the last thing I wanted was someone else in Hollywood to tell me how to look or who to be. But as the press tour for Space Between kicked into high gear, Capitol Films insisted I have someone to help me choose my clothing and make me look my best for public appearances. I guess my casual style and disdain for makeup didn't sit too well with them.

But we connected instantly when I met him. Cinna was just getting started in his career as a stylist. I liked that about him – but what I liked most was that he's one of the least affected people I've ever met. He has a quiet calm, a beautiful creativity that seems to flow through his fingers when he makes up my face to highlight my features or twist my hair into simple, elegant styles. He understood before he even knew me that I struggle with glamour. He understood me.

Through the hours we've spent in clothing fittings and prep sessions, we've become good friends. Cinna doesn't share much about his personal life, but I know that he's lived with his boyfriend, Samuel, for three years and that they're thinking about buying a condo in the hills. He knows about Prim, and my life before I came to the west coast. He knows, just by looking at me, what I'm feeling. And I know, without a doubt, I can trust him not to make me look foolish.

Tonight is no exception. By the time he's done with me, I look radiant. My hair is pulled back from my face is a tight bun. My face is subtly highlighted with dark shadows and golden hues. And the dress he's chosen for me is stunning – a strapless crimson dress with wisps of darker tones that seem to gather together. It reminds me of a slowly burning fire. It flares at the waist and comes to rest just above my knees – classy and a tiny bit sexy. I stare at my reflection in the mirror and marvel at his talent. He's created an image that's so diametrically opposed to the youthful, romantic looks he's given me in the past. It makes me feel the opposite of how I've felt since my meeting in Snow's office – powerful, almost defiant in its boldness.

What would Snow do if he saw me like this? He'd surely disapprove – I look nothing like the gentle, demure ingénue he wants me to be. But unless I do something tonight that shows flagrant disregard of his request, he can't argue. He can't punish me.

I turn to face Cinna, sure that the gratitude I feel is palpable. "This is amazing."

He nods his approval. "You're amazing. Don't let them forget it.

Cinna leaves as quickly as he arrived, with a hug and a kiss and a promise to stay in touch. And seconds later, Effie is rapping on my door.

"Are you ready?" Effie asks breathlessly. "I'm just dying to see this venue."

I walk into the hallway outside my hotel room and see Peeta standing outside the door across from mine. He's wearing a black dress shirt and coal-grey suit that are tailored to perfection. While I take in his appearance, I can't help but notice the way his eyes sweep over me when he sees me. Quickly, carefully, as though he didn't want me to see. When he sees that I have, he nods at me.

"You look beautiful." He says appreciatively.

"You don't look so bad yourself," I mumble, and I'm blushing and hating myself for doing it.

Effie glances at her phone and then claps her hands twice like we're pets that need to be corralled, and I can't help but roll my eyes. When I glance over at Peeta, I can see him struggling to keep his expression neutral. "The car is here," she announces. "Let's go." And with that, she's off down the hall.

I look over at Peeta and see that he's holding his arm out to me, a question on his face.

I wrap my own arm through his as we take off after Effie.

"Is this okay?" He asks, quiet enough so she can't hear.

I nod because Cinna's dress has reminded me that I'm strong. And though I'd never admit it to anyone, Peeta's warmth next to me makes me feel steady.

_It's okay._

I want to leave the party no less than five seconds after we arrive. It's not that it's not beautiful. The art house theater, Cinemapolis, has been decorated to look just like the headquarters of the Resistance Party in the Space Between series. Shining silver walls, glowing blue lights overhead, and futuristic artwork adorn the space while a string quartet in the center of the room plays mournful versions of the film's score. It feels simultaneously elegant and a little bit eerie.

When we first walked in, I had to remind myself we weren't actually in a movie because the reaction to us felt so staged, so over-the-top. Nearly every person seemed to turn to look at us, gawk at the way we stood together. You could almost hear the collective buzz that arose throughout the room.

_"It's true."_

Effie informed us on the way to the party that "anyone who's **anyone** in the New York film scene" would be here. And as I look around the throng of people that crowd around me and Peeta, I know she's right. But if these people are civilized and cultured, they're doing a pretty awful job of showing it. It feels like we're animals in a zoo exhibit – something to be admired and pawed at – not human at all, but a prize to be won. They approach us with wide eyes and carefully-practiced gasps of awe, like vaudevillian actors vying for a chance in the spotlight.

I keep my arm linked with Peeta's because while the rest of the people at the party aren't a part of any movie scene – this is real, this is all really happening – we still have our parts to play.

And Peeta plays his so very well. When a wealthy patron of the theater comes to make our acquaintance and remarks at what a "handsome" couple we make, Peeta looks at me as though I am the most amazing creature on earth and says, "Well, she makes me look good."

When a lecherous older man with whiskey breath – Effie wasn't able to mask her disgust when she told us later he was a has-been actor trying to make a comeback on Broadway - asks whether he can steal me from Peeta, he only tightens his grip on my arm and says, "I don't think I could stand to see her go."

And when a gorgeous young blonde with a barely-there white dress sidles up next to him and offers him a drink, Peeta merely gives her a polite smile pulls me closer. "I'm fine, thanks." He says. "But Katniss would love another glass of wine, if you're going to the bar."

All night long, we smile and schmooze with the New York elite. We take selfies with the catering crew and try not to squint against the seemingly endless flashbulbs popping in our direction.

Peeta never leaves my side.

It's nearing midnight – and I'm beginning to wonder how much longer I can hold my sunny disposition together before my cracks start to show. Peeta seems to notice I'm dragging, and leads me over to a couch near the back of the room.

"I think Mr. Avante-Garde Director grabbed my ass," he murmurs into my ear, cocking his head subtly toward the middle of the room. A man we encountered a few minutes ago – who seems to be single-handedly trying to bring back Beat Generation fashion - is whispering something in Effie's ear.

"Yours too?" And that earns me a laugh.

"I'm so ready to get out of here," he admits. "Think they'll notice if we duck out the back?"

"Maybe it would be for the best if they did. Everyone would think we're going off to be 'alone.'" I hold up my fingers, miming quotation marks. Peeta raises an eyebrow.

"Ms. Everdeen, if you're insinuating that I'm some kind of loose man, I'll have you know I don't take my virtue lightly."

We're both laughing now, and for a moment I forget that we're surrounded by people who seem intent on watching our every move. But there they are again – the flashbulbs. This time, I see the PNM TV baseball cap the photographer is wearing and I know the moment we just shared will probably be the lead story on Caesar's show tomorrow.

_At least we gave them something good._

We don't have to sneak out. No more than a half hour later – as guests begin to filter out of the party – Effie gathers us together and tells us to head back to the hotel – we have a big, big, big, big day tomorrow, where we'll sit down with our new director, Plutarch Heavensbee, for the first time.

I manage to gather the strength to slip out of my dress and throw on an old t-shirt and sleep shorts before I collapse on my bed. My body is fatigued – from the flight, and the party, and the sheer up-and-down emotional commotion it's endured over the last day. But I only need to lay in bed for a few minutes to realize my mind is still racing, and there's no way I'll be sleeping any time soon.

I glance at my phone and see a text message from Prim.

_**Prim**__ I just saw u on Caesar's Twitter at some party. Nice dress. Cinna? You looked HOT. 3 3 3_

So the pictures are already making the rounds.

Good.

I think of what Peeta said on the plane.

_Let him see._

I stare at my phone background – a picture of Prim and I in her dorm room at Palm Hills Academy. And the magnitude with which I miss my little sister hits me all at once, overpowering me.

Prim. Amazing little Prim. I've never been this far away from her for this long. It hurts – almost to the point of panic – to know that if she needed me, I wouldn't be able to get to her. But I know Gale will look after her – make sure the monthly care package I have sent to her arrives on time.

_Gale._

This sets off another firestorm of loneliness in my belly, and I clutch my phone to my chest, willing the tears that well up to stay back.

I don't think of myself as someone who needs anyone. I got by, raising my sister by myself for almost half my life. But right now, I can't bear the thought of being alone in this silent, unfamiliar hotel room, so far away from the two people I love most in the world.

I get out of bed and pull the drapes back at the window, thinking maybe fresh air will quell the suffocating sadness. But all I see are trees – lush, tall, green trees – like the ones in the woods back home.

My mind takes me back to the weekends in the woods with Prim, picking flowers and naming the squirrels that run by.

I close my eyes and I can hear the way the twigs crunched underneath my black boots; the way the wind rustled through the tree.

And now this might really be a panic attack if I can't find something to distract me.

I slip on my shoes – the same boots I wore in those woods four years ago – and I'm about to head down to the vending machines – anything to take my mind off this moment – when there's a soft knock on my door.

I swear to God, if it's Effie, here to remind me of some banal task I have on my schedule tomorrow, I can't be sure I won't scream in her face.

But it's not my publicist.

It's Peeta, wearing pajamas and looking like he just got out of the shower. He's holding a pizza box and a six-pack of beer.

"I can't sleep." He says with a shrug. "You hungry?"

I let him in my room without a word.

- end part 3 -


	4. Tell me all the things you can

_I'm laughing too loud_, I think as the joyful sound escapes my mouth. After days of stress – years, if I'm being honest – it feels foreign to laugh this loud. I know there's a chance Peeta and I could be keeping everybody in this wing of the hotel awake. But I feel too good to care.

The pizza was great – a vast improvement on the odd assortment of unfulfilling appetizers at the party. The beer is better - it's a local brew, rich and dark and bitter ("Like me," I said after I described it to him, and it made Peeta laugh harder than I've ever seen him). We're each finishing our second bottle, which probably explains the excessively loud laughter.

Peeta is stretched out on one end of my king-sized bed, his body propped on one side to face where I sit, cross-legged a foot or so away. He's sketching a spookily accurate cartoon of our old director, Seneca Crane, on the complimentary hotel notepad.

I don't know how long we've been in here, eating, drinking, talking, laughing.

I can't remember the last time I had this much fun.

"See, but it curved up a little bit… here." He says, shading in Seneca's strangely cropped facial hair. He takes a sip of his beer, then holds the sketch up for me to see, grinning proudly. "There he is."

"It's uncanny."

"I've met a lot of odd people since I became an actor, but I think maybe he was the weirdest. Brilliant. But weird."

"I'm gonna miss the beard," I say, feigning a somber tone.

"Me too," Peeta agrees, shifting so he's lying on his back. "I wonder why he decided to leave."

"Snow fired him," I say, the words tumbling out of my mouth before I realize I may have said too much.

Peeta sits up, eyebrow arched. "What? How do you know?"

"Haymitch told me," I reply neutrally, hoping that will satisfy his curiosity. For some reason, I don't want to tell him that he was fired for choosing me.

But Peeta, somehow, can read me well enough to know there's more. "Why would he fire the director behind his most successful film in years? That doesn't make sense."

Suddenly, the bedspread below me is fascinating. I keep my eyes on it, avoiding Peeta's, tracing the swirling patterns with my finger.

"Katniss, you can tell me." His voice is soft now, the humor of the last few hours gone. I raise my eyes to meet his and see them, open, waiting patiently.

_Ally._

So I tell him what I know. Based on the way Peeta's jaw tenses, I can tell before he even speaks that he feels the same way I felt about it. The injustice, the anger, at how easy it is for one man to destroy someone's career on a whim.

"But Snow had to see he was wrong. I mean, even people who hated the movie said you were amazing in it."

"Does Snow strike you as the type of person who likes being wrong?" I retort. And understanding flashes through Peeta's eyes.

"That's why he's making you do this," He says, knowing I understand that "this" is us – our burgeoning fictional romance.

"Well, that and my sparkling personality." I say, a half-hearted smile on my face.

I see the confusion in Peeta's eyes.

"I hate talking about myself, so I hate interviews. I hate dressing up, so I hate the red carpet. And apparently, I don't do a very good job of hiding any of it. Not exactly the person you want as the face of your franchise."

For some reason, this seems to make Peeta angriest of all. "God forbid you actually have a personality."

Now it's my turn to be confused.

"So yeah, you're not exactly warm all the time. But you're interesting. You're smart, and unpredictable and funny –"

"You think I'm funny," I say, incredulous.

"Hilarious." He reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the last two beers, tossing one to me. "Tonight? You're hilarious."

I think about the way the evening has transpired; how quickly we fell into an easy rapport, reminiscing about our experience on last year's set. How he laughed at my impression of Effie and the story I told about missing a flight to Sundance and taking a train with a hungover Haymitch to get to my premiere in time.

"You've been drinking. Your judgment is clouded."

"I have an impressively high tolerance for alcohol." The look in his eye tells me he's not going to back down. "And you're the best actress I've ever seen. If I had a billion dollars and ran a film studio, you're exactly the kind of person I'd want as the face of my franchise."

Warmth floods into my cheeks and, unexpectedly, down through my body, causing my heart rate to speed 's one of the genuinely nicest things anyone has ever said to me, and the way he's looking at me let's me know he means it.

"Did I mention I hate talking about me?" Is my stiff reply.

He grins and drinks and settles back against the headboard of the board. "Yes, which explains your masterfully subtle powers of deflection."

I roll my eyes, but don't attempt to hide the smile that creeps onto my face. The third beer is settling into my system, and it's doing its job as a social lubricant because I feel bolder. "Tell me about you."

He raises an eyebrow, obviously amused. "What do you want to know?"

"Whatever you want to tell me."

"Your interpersonal skills are really unique, has anyone ever told you that?"

"I'm trying." I huff at him, taking another drink.

He laughs. "I know." A pause. "Thank you for that, by the way. For trying."

My reply is a shrug, but he doesn't seem put off.

"Ok. My name is Peeta Alvin Mellark. I'm 22 years old. My favorite color is orange. Sometimes I act in movies..." He trails off, an embarrassed expression crossing his face. "I don't know. I guess it is kind-of hard to just talk about yourself."

It's endearing, somehow, seeming him struggle when he's usually so good with his words. So I help him along. "Where did you grow up?"

"In Michigan. Ann Arbor. Go blue."

"My dad went to Ohio State." I say.

"Well, I don't think we can be friends." He says, making a move as though he's leaving. We both laugh as he settles back down onto the bed.

"Did you like growing up in Michigan?"

"I loved it. I miss it. Being here reminds me of it. The trees, you know? The seasons."

I nod. "I know. I grew up in Pennsylvania."

"Yeah, we moved out to L.A. when I was ten. Me and my mom and my youngest brother Lane. My dad and older brothers stayed back, for work… he runs a bakery. He couldn't just leave it, it's been in our family for years."

"Did your parents get divorced?"

He shakes his head, picking at something on the bottom of his shoe. "Nah. Not officially anyway. I mean, they're still together. They just don't speak that often. Both busy, I guess. It was always that way, though."

He's silent for a moment, and I find myself waiting with baited breath to hear what he has to say next. I never realized just how interested I was in knowing who Peeta really is until I got the opportunity to find out.

"No, we moved because I'd been acting a lot, in school plays and local commercials and stuff. And Mom… if there's one thing she's good at, it's finding a cash cow. She thought I had a good chance at getting some work in Hollywood."

"Well, clearly she was on to something."

He smiles at this, though it's a muted expression at best. "Clearly. Been out there ever since, anyway. I got enough roles in TV shows and movies and other things to pay the bills. Then _The Space Between_. I think you know the rest."

"Fame, fortune, and Caesar Flickerman's undying adoration."

"What more could a guy ask for?" I can tell by his tone that the answer, for him, is a lot. His eyes meet mine, now, curious and hopeful. "What about you? How'd you get into acting?"

My heart starts to race as I try to remember my standard answer. The one that I've given to dozens of interviewers – the one that even my publicist believes to be true. And it is. Mostly.

"School plays, mostly. I had a director in high school, she used to do a lot of acting. Mags. She really believed in me. Thought I could make it out here. And I couldn't afford college so I figured… what the hell? I came out here, started auditioning, landed a couple of gigs. I think you know the rest."

I feel a pang resonating deep in my chest as soon as the words are out of my mouth. And I almost tell him. That I got into acting because Youth Theater Guild was the only school activity after school that didn't cost anything and Mags let me bring Prim with me. She gave her a snack and let her sit in the back of the dingy, rundown high school auditorium with her books so we didn't have to go home and face our depressive, emotionally comatose mother. Acting was our escape.

And when our grandmother died, she had the presence of mind to leave Prim and I – not our mother – her inheritance. Mags took both my hands in hers and told me we had to go. Get away from mom and her bad days and the poverty and fear that we'd lived with since my father died eight years before.

We had to fight for a better life.

So acting became our best chance at survival.

I almost tell him, but I don't. I can't.

"You know, I saw you once. In a play out in L.A. A couple of years ago."

His words take me by surprise, but I'm grateful he's spoken them because he brings me out of my own mind and into this room, with him.

"What play?"

"Some musical. _The Last Five Years_?"

The first professional role I ever had. The director had cast me even though I was way too young for the part. She said I had an old soul.

"I can't believe you saw that."

He nods. "I had a friend in the band. He told me I had to see it – there was this amazing girl in it, Katniss Everdeen. She was gonna be a star." He grins as he remembers. "The second you opened your mouth and started singing, I knew he was right. You were incredible. It sort-of blew my mind when we ended up in this together. What are the odds, you know?"

I'm blushing, deeply now, and I open my mouth to speak but he cuts me off.

"I just totally creeped you out, didn't I?"

I can't quite look at him, but I want him to know it's not revulsion or discomfort I'm feeling, but a warmth spreading through me – a rush of affection – that I can't quite explain. "No. It's just… Haymitch saw it, too. The play. That's why he signed me. It's just a strange coincidence."

"Life is funny." He finishes off his beer and sets the empty bottle on the bedside table. "Sorry I never told you before. I just never had a chance."

"I'm glad you told me," I tell him. "Any other deep, dark secrets I should know about?"

I expect a laugh, but the breath he sucks in is visible – as though he's steeling himself.

"It's okay, you can tell me." I say, surprising myself with the gentleness of my tone. This isn't a voice many people get to hear. It's soft and encouraging. It's the voice I use for Prim.

"Snow called himself a traditionalist when I talked to him yesterday. I think what he means is that he's very conservative politically. He thinks some of the things I've done lately... the political things... send 'the wrong message.'"

Peeta cocks an eyebrow at me, as if to ask whether he needs to elaborate. He doesn't. He's always been vocal about his beliefs. He's appeared at several progressive charity functions, and a video of him speaking passionately at a gay marriage rally last fall got him a lot of attention.

"That's ridiculous. I saw that speech you gave. It was great. And you never said you were speaking on behalf of the studio. We're not allowed to have opinions now?"

"Not if they threaten his."

_Threat_. There's that word again. I look at the boy sitting across from me – though he's in his early 20s, he could pass for a high school sophomore. And me? Sure, I 'm withdrawn, some might say unapproachable, but before today, no one has ever used that word to describe me. We're both so young, so powerless in the grand scheme of things. When and how did we become a threat?

I shake my head. "You standing up for people, for basic human rights, especially when so many kids worship you? It sends the right message."

"Agreed. He can't stop me from speaking my mind. But he does have enough influence to make things complicated if I don't… what did he say? 'Fall in line.'" He sighs.

I study his face, still unable to reconcile that he, who seems to believe so passionately in every word he says, could be so easily swayed into silence. "People start talking about whether we're together, they'll stop talking about the important stuff you say."

He nods. "If you're reading between the lines."

"I always do." I lean forward now, compelled, intrigued, and drunk enough to not care that he knows. "But why agree? You got death threats after that speech. That crazy church picketed your house. That didn't stop you."

I've seen Peeta smile a thousand times – it's always a genuine, full expression that reaches into his eyes. Except now – this smile is sad, vulnerable, hesitant. It tells me he knows I'm his ally, too.

"Lane has a full-ride scholarship at UCLA. Wrestling. He's amazing – smart, motivated. He wants to be a doctor."

His eyes are off of me now, focused on the wall behind me. "He's gay. He told me two years ago. Of course, he doesn't think anyone can know. Our parents don't. My dad would understand, but my mom, she's… not the kind of person who can hear that. He's terrified people will find out. He didn't even want me to start speaking out. But I told him I had to. For him. Besides, in the end all anyone did was speculate that I was gay. Kept the attention off him, for the most part." He sighs. "Snow knows, though, somehow. About Lane."

It's all he has to say. I can fill in the blanks of their conversation, because it was probably so similar to my own.

Do what I say, or I'll tell the press all about your younger sibling – the one you're trying to protect.

Evil. I know it now, without a doubt, the man is evil. I look into Peeta's eyes and see something I never expected from him – a quickly unraveling despair, a sense of urgency – that I keep his secret safe, that we find a way to fix this.

And even though I thought I'd never tell another living soul about my family – even though it took me months to tell even Gale about her existence, and the chain of events that brought us to Los Angeles – I find my words spilling out to Peeta. Because he needs to know how much I understand and share his fear. Because maybe, maybe I need him to share mine.

"I have a sister," My voice is rougher than I expect it to be. "She's 14. I keep her a secret because I know Caesar and Effie and the rest of them will trot her out like a show horse if they find out about her. Try to make her something she's not. She's been through hell. She wants a normal life. She wants to be a doctor."

It's all I have to say. Peeta nods, almost imperceptibly. He understands. "They can't find out."

And I know this is a promise.

24 hours ago, I would have laughed at anyone who told me that Peeta and I were alike. And now, I look at the man before me and know, truly, that he may be able to understand me more than just about anyone else.

_Ally. Friend._

And so I take a deep breath. And I tell him everything.

- end part four -


	5. Bite tongue, deep breath, count to ten

Peeta doesn't leave my room until after 4 AM. And I can't help but thinking, as I stand in the doorway to my hotel room and watch him walk into his and wave gently at me, that Snow would kill to have this moment between us captured for all the world to see.

_But it's ours._

The thought comes unbidden, but it warms me as I collapse backwards on my bed, finally exhausted.

I grab at my phone clumsily as I climb into bed, intending to set my alarm. My heart sinks into my stomach when I see the string of missed text messages on the lock screen.

_**Gale**__ Buttercup misses you. She's scratching at ur door._

_House is quiet without u yelling at me all the time._

_How's the party?_

_Hope ur having fun._

I got so swept up hanging out with Peeta that I totally forgot to check in with my best friend. It's just after 1 AM back in L.A., but I text him back anyway.

_Ahhh so sorry. Passed out when I got back. Just saw this. Stupid jet lag._

I feel bad for lying. I feel awful for lying. But something doesn't sit right about mixing Peeta and Gale in my life. And I don't want to bring that complication on before I have to. Especially when I finally feel like I have a handle on this whole situation.

_**Gale**__ Its ok. Go back to sleep. Miss u._

_Miss u too._

And I do. For the past three years, we've spent most nights collapsed on the couch, watching old movies, pouring over the awful scripts that come my way, or just hanging out and giving each other a hard time. I imagine him sitting alone now. And I miss him a lot.

But when I close my eyes to go to sleep, the last unbidden thought that flits through my mind is how warm Peeta's eyes were - even from a few feet away - as he bid me goodnight.

9 AM is here way too early, especially when it comes courtesy of Effie pounding furiously on my door.

"Katniss! Kat_niss_!" She's almost yelping by the time I stumble to the door and open it for her.

I'm not sure what annoys me more – how impeccably put together she is – her blood red manicure matches her power suit, for Christ's sake – or the sour expression on her face as she stands, hands on her hips, outside my door.

"I've been trying to wake you for the last five minutes." She sighs, glaring. "You're meeting with Plutarch Heavensbee in one hour. Let's _go_."

"Gimme a minute," I mumble. But I'm dragging, and it takes me more like 20, despite my very basic morning routine. She's positively fuming by the time I join her in the hallway wearing a pair of dark skinny jeans, some worn flats, and an oversized sweater.

"Are you even wearing makeup?" She gasps.

"No."

She storms off ahead of me toward the elevator bank. I'm pretty sure I hear her mutter, "Why do I even bother?" But I'm not awake enough to care.

It's bright in the lobby and Peeta is already there, looking every bit as tired as I feel. But he smiles when he sees me, and there's that feeling again – the warmth in my stomach – because I'm glad to see him, too.

We approach him and Effie whips out her phone to check on our car.

"Morning." Peeta says, and I see then that he's holding two large to-go cups from the hotel's restaurant. He hands me one. "Coffee."

"Morning," I reply.

I want to say so much more. _Thanks for having impeccable timing last night and preventing me from wallowing in self-pity. Thanks for telling me about Lane. Thanks for listening about Prim. Thanks for not making me feel so alone._

"Thanks," is all I manage to get out.

Effie has ended her phone call and faces us both, her eyes darting back and forth suspiciously as she watches the exchange. Surely she's put together by now that it's no coincidence, how tired we both look, how much more comfortable we are around each other now. But all she says is, "The driver said there are photographers outside. Paparazzi."

_Those greedy sons of bitches._

It feels so invasive, especially now, when I'm barely awake and not even close to having my wits about me. Like anyone with a camera – some of whom are clearly Snow's spies – feels they're entitled to document every moment of our lives that they can. Just to sell a couple pictures. Just to make a couple dollars.

I look to Peeta. He's already looking at me.

"You ready?"

I sigh and nod in response. He tentatively puts his arm around my waist and pulls me close to him. It's an intimate gesture – one shared by lovers not ready to let go of a night-long embrace. But he's warm, and after everything we shared with each other last night – the laughter and the secrets - it doesn't feel so forced anymore.

"Okay?" His voice is soft in my ear.

I nod, and we walk out the sliding glass doors – and into the flashbulbs again – together.

We manage to make it to our meeting location – a trendy restaurant called the Carriage House Cafe – without picking up any more paparazzi. And I'm grateful to see, as we enter the building, that someone seems to have pulled some strings. It's empty except for the wait staff and our new director, who stands waiting for us beside a booth in the corner.

Plutarch Heavensbee is a plump, slightly disheveled man with three-day old stubble and a jolly personality. We've never met in person – only spoken briefly on the phone after he got the job – so I'm surprised when he pulls me into a long, inviting hug.

"Katniss Everdeen," He says, a broad grin on his face. He engulfs Peeta in an embrace, then stands back, arms out, to take both of us in. "Peeta Mellark. My stars."

_We're not yours_, I think, feeling a sudden and unexpected allegiance to Seneca, who chose us both. But I bite my tongue and smile.

"It's so good to finally meet you," Peeta says. "I'm a big fan."

Plutarch scoffs and motions for us to sit opposite him. "I'm the fan. You two were completely inspiring in The Space Between. You're going to make my job very easy." Then he claps his hands together. "Are you hungry? I'm starving. Let's eat."

Within minutes, a full array of delicious breakfast foods – fresh fruit, pastries covered in powdered sugar and honey, toast, eggs, and bacon – is spread out before us. We make small talk – which Peeta excels at far more than me – while we dig in.

"How long have you been out here?" Peeta asks Plutarch, who's drinking coffee like it's water.

"A few weeks. Prep work, location scouting, making sure the sets are all coming together. They look great, by the way," he winks at us. "We're right on schedule."

"We're just shooting the first 20 pages of the script or so here, right?" I ask. "Until we meet Ryder and leave the Resistance Base?"

Haymitch grins again, clearly pleased that I've done my homework. "That's exactly right. We've got a set built that will work as the aircraft that takes you to Stars Falling. Then it's on to Ireland. That's where the real fun will start."

Peeta and I both nod, almost in unison. By now, I know the story backwards and forwards. I can only assume he does as well.

In _Stars Falling_, our characters encounter a rebel leader from another area – one previously thought to be decimated by war. His name is Ryder, and he takes Tessa, Blake and a few other survivors of the First Resistance against the government to Stars Falling, a refugee camp. There, they get caught up in plans to bring down the oppressive government once and for all. Tessa and Blake also fall in love, though they're separated during a raid. That's where the second part ends. It's going to be pretty dramatic on screen, to say the least.

"We're going to do some test shoots this week – lighting, costumes, make-up and what not. And you'll be training – in the gym for a couple of hours every day, at least."

This comes as no surprise, though I have to say I'm sort-of dreading it. I've been prepping for my return to Tessa Bradley's physique for the past couple of months, working with a personal trainer to tone my body and improve my stamina. I can only assume Peeta has done the same.

"What scene do we shoot first?" Peeta asks.

"We're going mostly in chronological order. So Katniss, we'll do the opening scenes with you waking up from your coma. Then your reunion scene with Peeta."

Peeta and I glance at each other. We both know what Plutarch is talking about. The scene is a fan favorite, and it's easy to understand why. It's one of two very steamy moments between Tessa and Blake in the _Stars Falling_ novel. Our characters find each other in the ruins of their small town. Until that moment, they each thought the other was dead. I don't remember exactly how Rebecca Ridgeway described it, though I know she mentioned heavy breathing and the exchange of saliva.

In just a couple of weeks, Peeta and I will be filming that scene.

I swallow sharply, suddenly desperate to discuss anything but the scene in question. "So why did you choose Ireland?"

"Timing, seasons, tax breaks, a lot of variables. But really, I worked as a production designer on a film that shot in Ireland when I first got started in the business. Fell in love with the place. I always swore I'd go back there." Plutarch seems proud.

"I'm just surprised the studio was willing to spring for it." I say, and I can feel Peeta's eyes on me.

Plutarch chuckles. "Well, I was too, to be honest." And though the smile never leaves his face, I kept help but notice the way his eyes, never leaving mine, take on an entirely un-jovial quality as he speaks his next words, which send an unexpected chill through me. "But we're doing a lot of things differently this time around."

******_ CaesarFlickrman RT PeetaMellark _****  
**_First day on the #starsfalling set… this calls for a selfie._

The picture is of Peeta and me standing in front of an enormous green screen. Peeta's crossing his eyes and I'm grinning goofily. It's cute. Even I can admit it's cute. And when my phone buzzes a few minutes later, I know instantly that we're on the right track.

_**Haymitch**__ Nice one, sweetheart._

We've spent most of the day together in the studio just outside of Ithaca where we'll spend the next couple of weeks shooting the opening sequences of the movie. After getting a tour and seeing our trailers, we started right in, standing for what felt like hours under hot lights while Cressida and Plutarch got the test footage they needed.

Peeta and I get through the day together, sometimes chatting, other times sitting side by side in silence. It's nice. Comfortable.

"Pizza round two?" He asks, as we move into position for the last shot of the day. "Or we could get carryout Chinese."

"I could eat," I reply, glad to know I'll have his company again tonight.

We bribe our driver, Nate Boggs, with egg rolls and he agrees to not only take us to the carryout place, but even goes in to get our order for us.

And we're so preoccupied with juggling our food as we walk through the hotel lobby that we don't notice the photographer waiting for us until he's calling our names to get our attention.

"Go, Katniss." Peeta says under his breath. I've dealt with paparazzi enough to understand the urgency in his voice. Some are harmless, but many will go to any length necessary to get the shot they're looking for. And this young man – wearing sunglasses and a low-slung baseball cap to hide his face – seems like the aggressive type. He's already following closely behind us.

"Hey man, how's it going?" Peeta says, stepping in front of the photographer to slow him down. I take the opportunity to dart toward the elevators, where I quickly push the button that will take us up. Peeta's smart – he manages to hold the guy off, asking benign questions about how his day went and how he likes the area – until he hears the dinging sound that signals the elevator door is open.

Then he sprints, taking long strides, and he's at the elevator within seconds. I manage to gauge his timing well enough, pushing the button that will force the door shut just after he steps through, effectively blocking the photographer out.

"Your room or mine?" Peeta asks, knowing we'll have to run as soon as we hit our floor. The hotel has multiple elevators, and the photographer won't be far behind us once he figures out what floor we're on. He might already know.

"Mine." I say, and we take off running down the hall as soon as we land on the fifth floor.

I don't dare look back behind me. I'm so focused on beating this guy – not giving him what he wants, a picture of the two of us going into a hotel room together. We reach my room in record time and I fumble with the electronic key. We make it inside, slamming the door shut behind us, and I bend over to catch my breath as Peeta looks through the peephole.

"He's out there." He whispers a few seconds later. "Stalking around the halls. What an asshole." Then he looks back at me, grinning almost giddily. "That was good teamwork. I feel like we should high five."

I have to grin back. Until my adrenaline starts to die down and I begin to second guess our actions.

Should we have let him catch us? Shown Snow what he wanted to see? Everlark, the Hollywood lovers, already sneaking off for a romantic rendezvous?

Then I think about how it felt to just be with Peeta last night, without the pressure of performing for the cameras or putting on a show. How nice it was to just enjoy his company, and the simple happiness of making a new friend.

_No. This is just for us. _

Three hours later, we've settled comfortably onto the bed, devoured our lo mein and cashew chicken, and decided definitively that there is nothing on TV worth watching.

I catch Peeta yawning out of the corner of my eye and realize how tired I am as well. It's just past 11 but I feel like I could fall asleep now and stay asleep for days.

"Is he still out there?" I ask. Peeta crosses the room to check, and then sighs.

"He's just sitting down the hall looking at his phone." He rubs his face tiredly. "He's a persistent asshole. I'll give him that."

We called the hotel lobby after we realized the photographer wasn't going anywhere. But they informed us that as soon as he'd realized what floor we were on, he'd checked out a room. And legally, unless he made noise or harassed us, they couldn't kick him out. Even Effie was angry about it, after we called to see if there was anything she could do. She assured us we'd move hotels in the morning, to a place that would give us more privacy.

But that still left us stuck in this room tonight.

I look over at Peeta, where he stands leaning against the chair of my vanity. The dark circles under his eyes make him look ten years older.

"You can sleep here." I tell him, and he looks at me, dazedly, not quite understanding.

"I think I'm going to have to. I can barely keep my eyes open."

"It's okay."

Peeta grabs a pillow and tosses it onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

It seems stupid to have him sleep on the floor. My bed is huge – plenty of space for both of us with room to spare. But how exactly do you invite someone you've only just befriended to sleep in your bed?

_But that's it. Befriended. We're friends. And friends don't let friends sleep on hard floors when there are fluffy beds with room enough for two._

"What are you doing?" I ask him stiffly.

"Going to sleep?" He looks at me, perplexed.

"Don't be stupid," I say, sounding harsher than I mean to. "I mean, you can sleep on the bed, too. I'll take this side. You take that side."

He glances at me, then at the bed, then back to me. I can almost see him working out an internal struggle in his mind. Then he seems to give up, too tired to protest. "Okay." He plops down on the other side and lies down on his back. "Thanks, Katniss."

"Sure." I say with a yawn. "Goodnight."

He turns off the bedside lamp, and the room plunges into darkness. "Goodnight."

I'm so very tired, but it takes me a stretch of several minutes listening to his even breathing before I'm able to fall asleep.

- end part five -


	6. Sound of the unlocking and the lift away

I awake to the sound of an alarm I don't recognize. Incessant, rhythmic chirping punctuated by some kind of synthesized percussion. Over, and over, and over.

_Annoying_. My eyes blink open and I register a few things very quickly: It's morning, but barely.. The most obnoxious sound known to man is coming from the iPhone on the bedside table right next to Peeta's head. Peeta and I are sleeping together.

Well, not _sleeping _together. But sleeping _together_ – at least to a greater degree than we were before I fell finally dozed off, when we were both on opposite sides of the bed, facing away from each other.

At some point during the night, we both turned in toward the middle of the bed, and Peeta shifted quite a bit closer to my side – so close that I can feel the soft exhalation of every even breath he releases in his sleep.

At this proximity, with the dim morning light pushing through the drapes, I can see parts of him I've never noticed before. The smooth quality of his skin, the almost imperceptible spray of freckles on his nose, the length of his eyelashes.

It's hard not to stare. Actually impossible. But I tear my eyes away quickly as I feel him stir, mortified at the thought that he would wake up to see my eyes fixated on him.

He's finally coming to, registering the awful sound. Groggily, he reaches to grab his phone without lifting his head off the pillow. "Ugh." He moans, fumbling with the device, his eyes still closed. Then, thankfully, he manages to turn it off. He opens his eyes, and they seem to register a split second of surprise when he sees me.

"Oh, hey."

"Hey." I say. And it's awkward. "What time is it?"

He's still groggy, and still turned to face me, his head resting in the crook of his outstretched arm. His eyes fix on my face, because what else is he going to look at? But it all feels so intimate, and a nervous feeling starts to twist unexpectedly in my stomach. I've never had a man in my bed – not even Gale. Never woken up next to someone, never watched anyone I didn't share a bloodline with wake up.

So I prop myself up in the bed, back against the headboard, carefully collecting all the blankets around me to keep warm.

"Uh. It's 6:30."

"Why are you waking up willingly at 6:30?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

"I'm asking myself the same thing." He says, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. "But, uh… I figured I'd see if I can sneak by that guy out there. And I was gonna swing by the hotel gym before we have to be on set."

A sound of exasperation leaves my mouth. "Oh my God, you overachiever."

He grins wickedly at me. "Hey, it takes work to look this good."

I roll my eyes. "You have an interesting definition of the word 'good.'"

He's up now, chuckling, and pulling on his shoes. "You should come, too. Maybe they'll let us off training early today if they see how totally buff we are."

"Yeah, that's gonna happen."

The look in his eyes is playful now. "What, are you scared?"

I scoff. "Yeah, scared of embarrassing you."

"Prove it."

_Ugh_.

Well, I'm already up – and definitely too awake to go back to sleep. And I have to admit, a workout might do me some good. Back in high school, my best stress relief was running through the woods in the park by my house. I traded the outdoors for a treadmill in L.A., but it still helps me keep my mind clear.

"I'll go if that guy's gone," I concede. Peeta's already at the door, checking. He shakes his head.

"He fell asleep out there. Unreal," he says, keeping his voice low. "Okay. I'm gonna try to stealth across the hall to my room."

I get up to watch as Peeta slowly, carefully pulls my door open. I hold it, glancing out to see the photographer slumped against the wall, snoring, his camera in his lap. In three long strides, Peeta crosses the hall between our rooms, his key already in his hand.

He even has the presence of mind to cup his hand around the lock and quiet the beeping sound it makes as it allows him in. We stand again in our respective doorways, and Peeta smiles at me conspiratorially.

"Five minutes." He mouths, and he shuts his door.

Effie may wear on my last nerve a lot of the time, but she knows how to get things done. And for that I'm always grateful. By noon, she joins Peeta and I as we're waiting to start a test shoot. She hands each of us a new electronic hotel key, a proud smile on her face.

"All of your things have already been moved to your new rooms," She says curtly. "The whole cast and crew is on the same floor this time, and the concierge _assures_ me that the guards outside the building are there around the clock. _That_ should keep the paparazzi away." Then she looks around the room, apparently checking to see if anyone is watching us, and turns back to us, motioning us closer.

"I pulled some strings. You have adjoining rooms now," she says with a whisper. Then she looks back and forth between us, and I think I might even see her blushing. "For discretion."

Peeta and I share a look and there's a hint of a smile on his face as he shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. But Effie is looking at us expectantly, eyebrows raised almost to her hair line, and he turns on the thousand-watt smile for her.

"Thank you, Effie," he says, and his sincerity is scarily believable.

"Yes, thank you," I say with a nod, slipping the key into my back pocket. She nods, clearly pleased.

"Now, I have to see about getting _my_ room moved closer to the elevator," and she scurries off, phone already pressed to her ear.

"We're so lucky to have her," Peeta says dryly.

But something about the last part of our exchange stays with me. I've assumed from the start that Effie was working on behalf of Snow and the rest of Capitol Films; in on the plan to make Peeta and I appear as lovers. But if that's the case, why did she go to great lengths to give us _more_ privacy?

I might need to pay more attention to Effie.

Despite the weird feeling I got from our conversation with Effie, I have to admit it's nice to be able to come and go freely from Peeta's room without worrying about some random guest at the hotel catching us together and setting off an Everlark meltdown on social media.

Because though I can't explain exactly how it happens, within the next two weeks, Peeta and I become essentially inseparable. It's a product of our schedules, really; we find ourselves coming and going to the same places the better part of most days.

We're paired together for test shoots, costume fittings, rehearsals and promotional photography. We have daily meetings with Plutarch to go over the script, and daily sessions with our personal trainers, Thresh and Enobaria, at the same gym and the same time.

I know part of it is Snow's design – he surely saw to it that we'd have the most opportunity to be seen and photographed together. To remind us he's in control. To keep us uncomfortable.

But despite my initial resistance to let my guard down around him, Peeta's presence in my life isn't uncomfortable at all. In fact, it's entirely welcome. And I find that we seek each other out even when our schedules don't naturally bring us together.

We fall into an effortless friendship that transcends our shared day-to-day experience. There's something about Peeta's kind demeanor and openness that I want to be around all the time. And his outgoing nature makes it infinitely easier to get through the endless experience of being "on" when we're on set or performing promotional duties. It helps that he's able to sense when I'm not in the mood to make nice with strangers and studio bigwigs and picks up the slack.

He makes me laugh.

Most evenings, we end up sprawled out on one of our beds. We eat and watch TV, or sample local beers and wine and get to know each other better. He tells me one night that he can't remember the last time he just _talked_ to someone.

"Everyone in my life is so friendly. But it feels like if they just left one day and never came back, I wouldn't even notice. That probably sounds awful. But it's just nice to have a friend," he says. And it's so genuine that my heart hurts a little after he says it.

The night before principal photography on _Stars Falling _begins, Peeta and I sit on either side of his bed. I'm reading over my lines for the day. Peeta isn't due to film until the day after, so he's finishing _The Great _Gatsby.

It occurs to me that we don't _have_ to be doing this in each other's presence. But it feels natural. Especially after a long day of playing "Katniss and Peeta: Lovebirds Edition." We spent most of the day dressed as Tessa and Blake, posing for photographs that will be on posters and other advertisements a few months from now. Within minutes of arriving on the set, Peeta noticed a tall blonde man he didn't recognize in the back of the studio taking a photo of us on his phone.

Peeta made a point to lean into me, intimately – not as he would normally, but with his hand lingering on my shoulder. His voice was a whisper in my ear, "Eyes on us."

And we fall in line. Peeta and I haven't strayed from the deal we made on the plane. Whenever we appear in public together, or one of us has the feeling we're being watched when we're on set, we turn it on. I'll lean my head on his shoulder or ask for a piggyback ride across the parking lot. He'll sling his arm around my waist or come up behind me and give my shoulders a massage. We make sure to laugh loud enough so everyone within earshot can see how much we enjoy each other's company.

At least we don't have to fake that part.

I keep in touch with Prim and Gale as best I can, but my days are packed. It's clear they're both keeping tabs on me, though. At least once every couple of days, I'll get a text message from Prim.

_**Prim **__Caesar Flickerman just actually drooled over a pic of you getting coffee 2gether._

_I thinkI could put together an itinerary of ur day just by searching ur name on Twitter._

_Apparently "wedding bells r ringing" 4 u and P. Am I not invited?!_

_I got an A on my AP Bio test._

_I miss you!_

And Gale, though he shies away from Hollywood gossip, seems to be keeping up with the news, too. Mostly to make fun of me for how ridiculously over the top it is. Though I know him well enough to read the morose quality of his texts as the days wear on.

_**Gale **__I think Caesar is gonna start a 24 news network about u._

_Do these photogs follow u into the bathroom 2?_

_Peeta Mellark is the new Gale Hawthorne._

I feel a now familiar guilty pang at the most recent text. It came with a link to some horrible gossip blog. Under a glaring headline, "**EVERLARK BOND ON **_**STARS FALLING **_**SET**," is a picture of Peeta and I huddled together over my iPad laughing, watching some funny YouTube video about cats.

Is Gale jealous of my friendship with Peeta? Before all of this started, Gale was my _only_ friend, really. My best friend, definitely. And I think if our roles were reversed, it would be hard for me to see him palling around with someone else, to feel like I was being replaced.

But he was the one who encouraged this before I left; he told me to play the game.

_And he's not being replaced_, I think, for my own peace of mind.

Because there's something very different about my friendship with Peeta. Gale and I fight constantly, bickering over every little thing because we're so hopelessly similar. And Peeta…

_It's just different._

I've read the _Space Between_ series several times, to really understand who Tessa Bradley is. And I've come to love and respect her – for her fire, her resolve to keep fighting for a better life.

_Stars Falling_ begins right where _The Space Between _ended – To quell the brewing rebellion and try to smoke out the Resistance Base, the government's massive military swooped in to attack the small village where Tessa, Blake and their families live. The town is left in ruins, and Tessa is left alone and unconscious.

I've been preparing for this scene mentally for days. It has almost no dialogue, so everything Tessa feels will need to come out through my body and face. It's an intensely difficult scene to pull off.

Now I'm getting ready to go to set to film it. And I'm surprisingly anxious. What if I'm too rusty and I totally blow it? What if I just can't convey the emotion to make the scene work?

_The face of the franchise_.

The thought makes me nauseous. I'd rather be just about anything else right now.

Knock, knock.

The sound coming from the door that separates my room from Peeta surprises me.

It's just after 5 AM, and I'm getting ready to go to the set. Peeta's dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans. He holds out a cup of coffee for me; this time, from the small maker he has in his room.

"It's a big, big, big, big, big day!" He says, sounding nothing like Effie but making me laugh nonetheless.

"Why are you up?"

"I couldn't sleep. So I figured I'd come with. For moral support." He says, leaning against the doorframe. There's a hesitancy in his eyes. "If that's okay with you."

"Sure, definitely," I say as I pull on my boots.

"You nervous?"

I nod my head. "A little. It's just a lot of pressure. It's been so long since we filmed the last movie. I think I'm a little scared I like, lost the character." I sigh as I pull my hair back into a ponytail. "It's such a hard scene. Why can't the first scene be me, like, walking down a hallway or something?"

He smiles softly at me. "Because everyone knows you can handle this."

The ride to the studio is quiet. I stare out the window, getting myself mentally prepared. I try to put myself in Tessa's shoes – to understand what it feels like to watch everything around you fall apart.

I think of the sounds my mother made when we found out my dad was dead.

Hair and makeup doesn't take too long – it's mostly about mussing my hair up and adding some cuts and bruises to my face. I slip into my costume – a ragged, torn up version of the green shirt and brown pants I wore throughout most of the first film. I look at myself in the mirror before I leave my trailer and gasp.

I look positively post-apocalyptic.

A small crowd of people are gathered on the set when I make my way in. Production assistants, gaffers, lighting techs and other crew members are setting things in place, while various staff interns mill around.

"Katniss, you look _incredible_," Cressida breathes as she wanders over to me, her headset in place. "Are you ready? Plutarch's on his way in."

I nod and smile, but I'm shaking a little and I just want to get this over with.

_It's just a movie. It's just a scene in a movie. If it doesn't work, you can just do it again_.

Moments later, I hear Plutarch's booming behind me.

"There she is… Tessa Bradley, everybody!" He wraps his arm around my shoulder and leads me toward the center of the set, which has large pieces of debris placed in front of the green screen.

The whole room is applauding and I wish they'd just stop.

_I haven't even done anything yet_.

I look in the back and see Peeta, and he's clapping harder than anyone.

Plutarch and I move across the set, and he quickly explains the basic blocking. What I'll be doing and when. What beats to hit. Then he turns to face me again.

"Are you ready, Katniss?"

I nod, steeling my expression. He can't see my nerves.

He smiles, and squeezes my shoulders in his hands. "You're gonna be amazing." Then he turns to face the room. "Quiet on the set!"

The overhead lights shut off, and the room is dark except for the lights on the platform where we're filming the scene. High-powered fans turn on, blowing hints of smoke through.

I take my place on the ground and wait for my cue.

_He's gone. He's gone, Katniss, he's gone_.

_My mother's wail. My sister's frightened scream. She's barely older than a baby, too young to understand what any of this means. _

"_Stars Falling_. Scene 1. Take 1." I hear Plutarch, but my voice is in my head. The camera dollies over me, so that it's directly overhead. I close my eyes.

"Lights. Camera. Action!"

My eyes snap open. I _am _Tessa Bradley. Awakened with a start into a world I almost can't recognize. I sit up slowly, taking in deep, heaving breaths and look around me, taking in the damage and destruction. It's the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. With shaking hands, I push myself onto my feet and turn in a circle, looking desperately for any signs of life.

"Mom?" My voice is hoarse, wet from the tears streaming down my face. "Dad? DAD?!"

The wind and smoke hit my face, blowing my hair back and making me cough. "Blake." I say with a gasping sob.

And just before I start to lose it entirely, I look down and see what's at my feet. A broken, burnt toy doll, its face smashed in from the impact of the bombs. I pick it up and stare at it.

And then I look up, an angry resolve in my eye.

They _will _pay for what they've done.

The doll grasped tightly in my hand, I stomp off into the smoke.

"CUT!" Plutarch yells, and I'm almost alarmed. I look over and see him perched in his director's chair, a gleeful expression on his face. "What an amazing way to start the shoot. That was _perfect_, Katniss."

I release a giddy sort-of laugh, sheer relief sweeping through me.

"Let's re-set and get some more coverage of the scene." Plutarch claps his hands, and the crew springs into action.

I jump off the platform and head toward my chair to get some water. My heart is pounding with pure adrenaline.

I did it.

"Katniss," Peeta's voice is behind me, and I turn around and throw myself into his arms without thinking. He squeezes back tightly, rubbing a hand down the length of my back. "Oh my God, Katniss. You're incredible."

I pull back to look at him, and see my own joy echoed in his face. He's so genuinely happy for me.

I don't even care if anyone's watching when I move in to hug him again.

- end chapter 6 -


	7. Wrong until you make it right

"Welcome, welcome."

The voice echoes through the vaulted ceiling of the large white studio space.

Peeta and I exchange a glance. The man standing before us, Claudius Templesmith, has bright blue hair and a face that's been so altered by plastic surgery, it looks to be stretched against his skull.

"We're so happy you could make it today. The cover of Haute Cinema. Is there a greater honor?"

His voice is almost entirely monotone, so I can't tell if he's being sarcastic. But Peeta steps on my foot for good measure. Laughing in the face of one of the most famous entertainment journalists is probably not the best first impression to make.

Claudius starts moving around the studio space we walked into only a few minutes ago, gesturing grandly around him.

"This is where we'll do the photo shoot. And this," he points to a minimalist sitting area with a couple of metal chairs, a table and a fruit bowl, "is where I'll be interviewing you both. Separately, of course."

"Of course." Peeta replies.

"It's going to be a very interesting day," Claudius says, wiggling his eyebrows at both of us suggestively, before wandering off to whisper with the photographer.

"Do you feel like you're in a Stanley Kubrick movie right now, or is it just me?" Peeta murmurs to me.

I grab his hand and squeeze it tightly.

It's going to be a very interesting day indeed.

When Effie first told Peeta and I that we were going to be the cover story for Haute Cinema, every instinct in me screamed out to reject the offer. I was just coming off the high of a great first day of filming when she broke the news on our way back to the hotel.

"Claudius Templesmith will be on set tomorrow to get notes about the filmmaking process. Then on Saturday, we'll spend the day in New York City for the final interview and photo shoot."

It wasn't a surprise, really. All you had to do was watch any entertainment news outlet to see that Everlark-mania was reaching fever pitch. Even some non-pop culture news sources were talking about us, their headlines all asking a variation of the same question.

**ARE THEY OR AREN'T THEY?**

Caesar had stoked the fire, and now it seemed that it was roaring to life.

"What's the interview about?" Peeta asked Effie. If he as hesitant as I was, he was doing a great job of hiding it.

"Oh, nothing too scary. Your rise to stardom, your experience on set. And of course, your incredible chemistry."

It was easy enough for us to play at being interested in one another when we were together. But to talk about our made-up relationship to a total stranger? I was certain the whole rouse would fall apart.

Peeta reassured me that night that we'd be okay. We'd figure out a few key things to say, to make sure our stories and sentiments lined up.

And we did. With a little help from Haymitch, who joined us on Skype for a coaching session last night.

"Play it safe," he cautioned. "Don't go overboard declaring your love for each other. Remember, a lot of people love the uncertainty of it all. Keep them guessing. And Katniss?"

I could see the warning in his eye through the computer screen.

"Just be nice."

Peeta seemed confident as he said goodnight.

I tossed and turned all night.

"So, Katniss. What an amazing name, ," Claudius says, rolling each syllable along his tongue.

"Thank you," I say, pulling nervously on my braid. We're sitting in what may be the most uncomfortable chairs of all time. There's so little space between us that I'm sure he can hear how fast my heart is beating. "My father picked it."

"How lovely," he says evenly. "I must say, I was so moved by what I saw on set earlier this week. First of all, your performance – the little I saw of it – looks to be. a. revelation." He grasps his cheek as he finishes the sentence,

"Yes, well, I'm really fortunate to play such a dynamic character," I say, thinking back to Haymitch's advice ("Be gracious. If you can't talk about yourself without freezing up, talk about how great everyone else is.") "The way Rebecca wrote Tessa, she's so easy to relate to and understand. It's like she leapt off the page, you know? I'm just trying to do her justice."

He nods, but I get the feeling he didn't hear a word I said. "Absolutely. But I have to admit, I wasn't just taken with your acting prowess, Katniss. But the relationship you seem to have formed with Peeta. It's really something, isn't it?"

"We're very close," I reply demurely, making sure to keep a soft, secretive smile on my face.

"That much was obvious," he says with a wink. "You two don't seem to be able to stay away from each other."

I hate the tone in his voice – lurid, suggestive. But I swallow my anger and manage another smile.

"Well, it's hard to describe what it's like when you meet someone like Peeta," I say. "I just feel… lucky, I guess. To know someone who's just so inherently good. I want to spend every minute I can with him."

"Well, I can't blame you. He's really special."

"And so talented," I interject. "I mean, he just becomes Blake. He's so serious and hardened by everything that's happened. But then the second the cameras are off, he's Peeta again. The total opposite. It's inspiring, really."

Am I going too overboard? Claudius seems to be eating it up. And so far, I haven't even said anything that's technically a lie.

"Inspiring," Claudius repeats. "He certainly seems to have inspired you. I mean, brought out an entirely new Katniss. And the chemistry between you two is just unbelievable. I'm not just talking on screen. You two are electric together. Why do you think that is?"

I can tell he wants something concrete out of me – a confirmation that we're in love, that we're dating, that we're something other than just friends. So I choose my next words extremely carefully.

"I think there are some things you just can't put a name to." I pause, to gather my thoughts, but my tone was so wistful that I'm sure Claudius will be convinced I'm reveling in my feelings for Peeta. "What Peeta and I have is special. It doesn't happen very often. We're… we're very lucky."

"And the rumors about the two of you? Surely you've heard what everyone is saying."

I blush and duck my head – sure that detail will end up in the article - when I respond. "I've heard the rumors," I say with a nod. "People like to talk. I can understand why, I guess."

"And I'm sure they'll keep talking," he concedes. "Especially after they see this cover."

"No."

Despite my many disagreements with Effie's way of doing things, I don't think I've ever actually said this word to her before.

"Absolutely not. No."

She's staring at me, her mouth agape – clearly she's not used to hearing it either.

"But – Katniss, you don't understand."

The fury I feel is almost indescribable, as I pace around the small dressing room they've set up for me.

The rest of the interview went well enough; it's what I learned after that set me off.

It seems that, to capitalize on all the talk about our romantic relationship, Claudius has decided on a truly sensational cover photo.

"You and Peeta, in bed together. Clearly post-coital," he adds, as if it were a given. "Wrapped in each other's embrace. He's whispering sweet nothings in your ear, or perhaps you're looking at one another as though you're sharing a wonderful secret."

He beamed as he told me – so proud of his idea.

I managed to keep it together until I made it to a place where I could lose it.

"Where's Peeta? Does he know?"

"He's finishing his interview with Claudius right now," Effie says, a panicked edge to her voice. "He doesn't – I'm sure they'll tell him soon. Katniss, I'm sorry, but you really don't have a choice. It's in your contract."

"To do promotional appearances. Not get naked on the cover of a fucking magazine, Effie. No."

"You won't be naked. You'll be covered by the sheet and –"

My glare is potent enough that she stops herself.

"I'm going to call Haymitch." She says, and she's gone in a matter of seconds.

I whip out my phone and begin to type frantically.

Did he tell you?

I know Peeta won't be able to answer – may not even have his phone on him – but all I want in this moment is to have him with me.

My phone rings, and it's Haymitch. Effie punted the ball. I don't answer – I can't, because I know if I do he'll have some stupidly logical reason why we should strip down together in some grotesque display of affection.

**Haymitch** Effie is right. You have to do this. Snow set the interview up.

And I'm not surprised, but I'm even angrier now. At the man who seems to have made it his personal life mission to perpetually pull the rug out from under me, to leave me uncomfortable and vulnerable.

He's always watching.

Haymitch warned me.

There's a knock on my dressing room door, and I'm sure it's Effie, so I'm surprised when I open it to see an assistant standing there with a bouquet of yellow and purple flowers.

"This was just delivered for you, Ms. Everdeen. From Capitol Films."

She hands the bouquet off, and when I see them up close, my heart stops.

Primroses.

My hands are shaking as I open the card.

**Smile.**

**Coriolanus Snow**

The next hour flies by in a blur. People I've never met tease my hair until it looks appropriately "post-coital," as Claudius said. My eyes are lined to look smoky and sexy, a bronzer is applied all over my body.

And then I get my wardrobe. A flesh-colored pair of panties and two small nude cups that I'm told are called "pasties." They just barely cover the curve of my breasts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

I slip on a silky pink robe and stare at myself in the mirror, trying not to hyperventilate. I'm sure some would say I look gorgeous, but I wouldn't agree – I'm sexed up to the point that I'm almost unrecognizable.

I've never been in any stage of undress around a man. Now Peeta – and a half a dozen total strangers – are about to see me basically naked.

I glance at my phone – Peeta hasn't responded, other than a simple "Yes."

And what more can he say, really? We can pretend to be in control of this – that we're calling the shots by choosing how we interact with each other, by making sure the other never feels uncomfortable. But we're lying to ourselves. We control nothing.

When I walk onto the set, I feel immediately overwhelmed. It's already lit by impossibly bright lights. In the center of the room is a large mattress, dressed with layers of white sheets and blankets. Pulsing house music is echoing through the room – to set the mood? To keep energy up? It's having the opposite effect – making me feel lethargic, like I'm outside of my own body.

I see Peeta standing at the foot of the bed. He, too, is wearing a robe, his jaw clenched as he watches the scene around him. I stand a few feet away, watching him, unable to approach or even to speak, I'm so nervous.

When he sees me, his entire demeanor changes instantly. His eyes often, his shoulders slump, and he closes the distance between us within seconds.

"Katniss," he whispers. "This is just crossing a line, we –"

"Snow sent me flowers. Here." I say, simply. "Primroses."

His eyes darken as they search mine. "Are you okay?"

I shake my head. "No. Are you?"

He grasps my elbows in his hands, warm and steady. "I'm worried about you. You look terrified."

But before I can answer, Claudius and two younger men, one holding a light meter, approach us.

"Are you two ready?" He asks. "This is Pollux. He'll be photographing you today. And this is Messalla – he'll be directing the shoot. I'm just staying to watch."

Messalla explains how it will work. They've set up the camera on a dolly, so the shots will be overhead. He'll be there, telling us how to pose and what to do.

"It's going to be really fun, guys." Messalla assures us.

Neither Peeta or I bother responding.

He leads us over to the bed.

"Go ahead and get comfortable," he says before wandering off to make sure everything is ready.

Peeta and I stand on opposite sides. He's clenching his fists, looking around the room. Then he nods to me. "No one's looking at us right now. Go ahead, Katniss."

An overwhelming affection swells through me as he turns away from the bed, allowing me complete privacy to disrobe. I do so quickly and slide into the bed, wrapping the sheets around me.

"All right, you two, let's get started," Messalla calls, and I can see Peeta sigh.

He unties his robe and it slides off him. And I know I'm not the only one in the room staring as he slides into the bed next to me.

It shouldn't be a surprise – I'd be lying if I said I haven't noticed the way he fills out a t-shirt. But I feel my pulse racing slightly and I can't stop my eyes from sweeping quickly up and down his body. His chest and arms are strong, broad but not grossly over-muscled the way many young actors are. His stomach, too, is muscular and lean, even without the bronzer that has been painted onto his skin. He wears nude briefs that ride low on his hips and thankfully, he's already in bed next to me and I don't get a clear glimpse of what rests below his hipbones because I'm already embarrassingly flushed from the quick glimpse I got of his body and the fact that I know he saw me looking. Because his cheeks are red, too.

Mesalla instructs us to lie facing one another, and as soon as we're in place, a team of assistants descend, pulling the sheets around us so they're positioned just right.

Our faces are just a few inches away from one another – I can feel his breath, shallow and quick, on my face. But his eyes are steady as they search mine.

"Are you okay?" He asks again.

I'm trembling, but I nod.

"You?"

He doesn't have time to answer. Mesalla is standing next to us now.

"Okay, now just... we're going for intimacy here. But fun. Fun, sexy, intimacy." He looks at us expectantly. "Let's just improvise, okay?"

It turns out our improvising is a disaster. We try several positions – Peeta's hand in my hair, my hand on his chest, looking at each other meaningfully, enticingly, lovingly.

"It doesn't look right," Mesalla keeps saying, becoming increasingly frustrated. He starts to move our bodies – moving Peeta's hand to cup my face, moving my leg up so that it's wrapped – above the sheet – around his hip.

"You two stay there," Mesalla sighs, running his hand through his hair. "Give me just a second. I need to rethink this. It just looks so forced."

"You think?" Peeta mutters through clenched teeth, and I choke out a laugh. We're a tangle of limbs and sheets. The music, having pulsated through the room nonstop for the last hour, feels like it's throbbing through my veins at this point. I don't know that I've ever been this uncomfortable in my life.

Peeta's eyes meet mine, and they're full of a range of emotions – humiliation and stress and discomfort.

"This is awkward," I say, even though I know it's the most obvious observation I could make.

"Yeah," he replies. He's silent for a second, then looks at me seriously. "You could have at least bought me dinner first."

We look at each other for a second, and then both burst out laughing. And we don't stop, because this is so ridiculous - all of it - and we're so bad at it.

When our laughter finally ebbs, Peeta – whose hand is still tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck – pulls my head to his and places an impossibly gentle kiss on my forehead before untangling his fingers and running them gently down my back.

The entire gesture takes less than two seconds, but seems to somehow freeze time. It's as though he set my skin on fire and turned my spine to ice simultaneously. The sensation rips through me, stunning me into silence as I look into his eyes.

"Is that okay?" he whispers, as he has so many times before, but it's different somehow and I want to tell him yes but find myself so surprised by the way his touch affected me that all I can do is smile at him.

What was that?

And before I have a chance to digest anything that just happened, Pollux and Messalla are bounding over to us.

"That's it, we're done. We got the shot!" And we're confused, but they're thrilled, eager to show us the results.

Peeta and I slide our robes back on and approach the station where they've loaded all the pictures onto a computer with a large flat-screen monitor. Pollux clicks through the first 100 or so frames, and it's obvious none of them will make the cut.

Then he pulls up the last two photos side by side, a grin on his face.

"We could use either of these. We'll probably end up using both – one of the cover, maybe one for an online version."

It's obvious to see why. In the first, I'm in Peeta's arms, my head is thrown back, mouth wide, mid-laugh. Peeta is laughing, too, but his eyes are trained on me.

In the second photo, Peeta's lips are pressed to my forehead and I'm leaning into him, still smiling, my eyes are closed.

They're two beautifully intimate moments. Real moments. I'm almost sorry the whole world will see them, but ultimately relieved to be done.

Though a part of me knows that the days of us skating by are over; that when it comes to Peeta and I are our "relationship," we're only just getting started.

We're barreling up I-81, back to Ithaca, and the sun is just starting to set. I look out the window, and that's when I notice it for the first time. Fall.

The trees are changing color, and it fills me with a potent nostalgia. Childhood and sacred solitary walks.

And even though I'm only seeing the fall foliage – bursts of bronze and burnt orange – through a car window, they're here in front of me. My first taste of my favorite season in almost three years. And that's something to be grateful for.

Prim says she wouldn't care if she never saw anything but palm trees and beaches again. But I yearn for the tall oaks and ancient maple trees.

"The trees out here are beautiful," Peeta says. I don't know if he's noticed how fixated I've been on the world outside, or if he, too, has been caught up in the sights around us.

I look at him, and like so many times lately, see the yearning I feel mirrored back to me. The longing, for home or something that feels like it.

"I'm so tired," I say. And I know, for now, it's all we'll say about it. Any of it.

He wraps an arm around my shoulders and I lean into him naturally. My head finds the curve where his shoulder meets his neck. And I close my eyes.

It's not the gentle rocking of our car in motion but the steadiness of his breathing that lulls me to sleep.

- end part 7 -


	8. Thousand different versions of yourself

_Am I looking at a ghost?_

_He's here. He's bloody and bruised and broken, but he's here._

_"B-Blake?" I muster, my voice betraying the dominant stance I took when I turned the corner. Our bodies mirror one another, both holding our weapons, poised to strike. Both standing, stunned, eyes wide, mouths open._

_"Tessa." His voice is steady, but his hands are shaking. "You're dead."_

_"I thought you were dead," I respond, still struggling to process his presence in front of me._

_He lowers the iron bar he's holding, slowly, slowly to his side as he considers me. I can only imagine he's thinking the same thing I am: Are you real?_

_I couldn't guess how long we stand there, the space between us impossibly large but so much smaller than I had accepted it to be just moments before. It might be five seconds. It might be five minutes. Time just stands still._

_And then it all happens at once. The warning sirens in the tunnels begin to go off again – This is not a drill, this is not a drill – and it shatters our silence. There's a clattering sound as Blake drops his weapon and closes the distance between us in a breathless moment._

_Our bodies crush together and my mouth finds his. His hands slide into my hair possessively and he tilts my head expertly to deepen our kiss. I gladly acquiesce…_

"Pizza will be here soon."

The voice – Peeta's – startles me and I drop my paperback copy of _Stars Falling_ guiltily on the bed. Why do I feel so ashamed?

_Because I was just reading about us kissing._

Not us. Our characters. But in less than a day, it _will_ be us kissing.

_Not us. Our characters._

I rub my temples and give him a half-hearted smile. "Good, I'm starving."

"This is news," he says as he crosses the threshold between our rooms and plants himself in his favorite spot on my bed. He gestures to the book, now laying half-open on the bed. "A little light reading?"

I shrug. "I just wanted to get a little background before tomorrow."

He looks puzzled. "Plutarch just emailed us the new sides, didn't you get them?"

I got them. I was hoping they'd be a little more descriptive as to what, exactly, we were expected to do in the scene as far as the kissing was concerned. But the script's direction is frustratingly minimal:

TESSA AND BLAKE EMBRACE AND KISS PASSIONATELY

"Yeah, I got them," I sigh. "It's just… not a lot to go on."

It feels weird talking to Peeta about this. Not only because we're talking about kissing like we'd talk about the weather or getting coffee or any other normal topic. But because he seems completely unphased by the scene, and the fact that it's only a day away.

"I'm sure he has something in mind," he shrugs as he picks up the book and casually flips through it. "What does it say in the book?"

"I was just getting to it."

Peeta finds the passage and reads aloud. "'I acquiesce and melt into his arms, unable to get enough of the taste of his lips and the feel of his heart beating beneath my hands as they splay against his chest. Our tongues battle for dominance,'" He quirks an eyebrow. "'And I'm numb and yet somehow aware of every nerve in my body all at once. I don't want this moment to ever end.'"

He shuts the book and sets it back on the bed. An unusually uncomfortable silence falls between us. "So there's that then," he finally says, and I chuckle.

"Yeah, that's something to go on."

_How do tongues battle? How will Plutarch possibly be able to get that across? Put cameras down our throats?_

"You want a beer?"

I nod vehemently and Peeta's on his feet and at the mini-fridge in seconds, pulling out a few of the pumpkin ales we've stashed for our evening hang outs.

I accept the drink, but can't shake the feeling of annoyance that he can so quickly go back to once again acting like everything is normal.

It's stupid, really, to be this worked up about the kiss. We've already done it once – well really, like ten times since Seneca kept making us shoot the scene until he thought we got it right.

But the first time we did it, Peeta and I barely knew each other. It was like any other professional scene. We were two actors playing characters, just doing our jobs.

Now we're two friends acting like we're in love playing two characters who _are_ in love. Like that's not confusing.

And I thought the first day of filming was intimidating.

I want it to be good. I want it to be right. It has to be.

Too bad I have no idea what I'm doing.

"You okay?" Peeta asks as he hands me a beer and lands back on the bed. I take a sip and let the cool, tangy liquid fall down my throat. It's soothing and tasty and I let it relax me.

"I'm okay," I say with a shrug. "Just… it's stupid."

He looks at me expectantly, and I know he's not going to let me off the hook.

"You're not nervous about tomorrow?"

He takes a long drink from his bottle, then twirls it absently in his hands. "Not especially," he says honestly.

"But you know Snow is probably going to have a million people there watching. And all the fans… if it's not good, they're never going to forgive us." I take another drink. "The expectations are like, impossibly high."

He nods, but still doesn't seem shaken. "They are. So we can't think about that. We just have to, you know." Another drink. "Be in the moment. Be Tessa and Blake. We'll be fine. No, we'll be great."

It's good advice, but I still can't quell the anxiety that's been bubbling in my stomach since I saw the scene on our shooting schedule.

"I'm not great at this," I admit. "At romance scenes."

He shrugs. "Who is? I'm not."

I roll my eyes. Does he not realize that all he has to do is show up on screen and women will swoon? "You've had more practice than I have."

He grins. "I don't know about that."

He has no idea. But how could he? He's probably kissed dozens of girls. Done more than kiss them, even. Kissing has never been high on my priority list, though. By the time I was old enough to be genuinely interested in the opposite sex, my dad was dead and I was raising Prim. And my love life in L.A. has been non-existent. I have virtually no real life experience to draw from – not a single kiss that's ever meant something to me.

"When was your first kiss?" I chall.

"On screen? I was 14. On Parker's Pond, that teen drama about the fishing town. Glimmer Roberts. You?"

"You." I say plainly. He pauses for a second to consider what I've said.

"No way."

"Seriously. You were my first on-screen kiss."

He seems genuinely taken aback. "You've got to be kidding me."

"Why is that so surprising? It's not like you were my first ever kiss," I say defensively.

"No? Who was then?"

"You first."

He grins. "I was 7. Her name was Delly Cartwright. She was my neighbor. We were in her tree house. She invited me up for a tea party and then just sort-of… attacked me with her mouth."

"Darius Razynski." I reply. "I was 8. He said I could borrow his bike if I let him kiss me. So I did, but then he rode off on the bike anyway. I chased him down and kicked him in the knee."

Peeta laughs loudly at this, and I find myself smiling, too.

"He deserved it." I say with finality.

"Obviously." Peeta says with a grin. "My first actual kiss – like post-puberty – was not stellar. I was at some teen award show and Clove Crawley pulled me into a maintenance closet and stuck her tongue down my throat."

"Did she battle you for dominance?" I ask, trying to keep a straight face.

"She was the clear winner." He says, shaking his head at the memory. "Very energetic, but it turns out I was allergic to whatever lip gloss she was wearing. Instant hives. Not pretty."

"When I was 16, we did _Pride and Prejudice_ and I was Lizzy Bennett. Marvel Hanson played Mr. Darcy. He apparently thought I'd been sending out signals like I wanted him. He cornered me in the costume room and even though I told him I didn't like him like that, he kissed me. So I kneed him in the groin."

Peeta's laughing uncontrollably now, shoulders heaving up and down. I try to keep a straight face as I finish the story, but it is pretty amusing.

"They taught us self-defense in gym class." I say with a shrug. "I was self-defending."

"I'm starting to feel like the fact that you haven't inflicted bodily harm on me yet is some kind of badge of honor," Peeta says.

"Operative word there is 'yet,'" I reply, tipping my beer toward him before I take another sip.

"Maybe I should be nervous for tomorrow then." He says. "I don't know. I don't think I can top that. I mean, the absolute worst for me was Cashmere Cohen."

"I can't imagine why," I say sarcastically.

When I was at one of my first industry events with Haymitch, he pointed Cashmere Cohen out to me and told me to avoid ending up like her at all costs. She used to be the hottest actress in Hollywood. Then she got into drugs – cocaine, if the rumors are right – and became a bit of a train wreck. She still takes bit parts in B-movies to pay for her lavish lifestyle. But whenever I see her, she's stumbling around and has a glassy look in her eyes. She's obviously living on borrowed time.

I can't believe Peeta kissed her. And it makes me feel inexplicably nauseous that he has.

"It was before she really got bad. I didn't even know she had a problem. I just knew she was the most famous person I'd ever met and she was paying attention to me." He shrugs. "Teenage insecurity is great."

"So what was so bad about it then?" I ask, unable to hide my curiosity.

"We were at some house party in the Hills. She took me back in a bedroom and jumped me, basically," he explains, though I can see the blush creeping up his neck. "Yeah, I'm not sure what was worse. The fact that she kept calling me her ex-boyfriend's name, or the fact that she threw up in my mouth and then passed out."

I wrinkle my nose. "Yeah, you definitely win." It's silent for a minute, and I can tell that he's expecting me to chime in or one-up whim with another story.

"That's it for me," I say quietly. "Like I said. Not a lot of practice."

I can't read Peeta's face – a rare experience, as he's usually so inherently expressive. He takes a long drink from his beer, studying my face, and I begin to feel claustrophobic under the weight of his gaze. Finally, he speaks.

"Not even Gale?"

_Why would he think I've kissed Gale?_

"God no," I say, making a face. "He's like my brother."

Peeta cracks a smile and if I didn't know better, I'd swear that the expression that flashed across his face was relief. "Well, uh… it doesn't matter Katniss. We're actors. It's just a scene. An important scene, yes. But still just a scene."

Everything he's saying is logical. Sane words that, any other time he spoke them, would set me at ease. I can't even describe what I'm feeling now, though. Something akin to disappointment, though that makes no sense at all.

He must be able to tell by looking at me that my thoughts are spiraling out of control.

"We're under a lot of stress," he says softly. "It's hard to keep up."

And this is why we sit together every night, watching mindless television; drinking and talking and laughing – distracting ourselves from life outside our hotel rooms -until we can barely stay awake. It's why no matter what awkward situation we're forced to playact, nothing seems to drive a wedge between the bond we've built. Peeta can look at me and not only know what I'm feeling, but why I'm feeling it.

"It's hard," I agree.

"But," he says, pausing for emphasis. "We've got two days and we're on a plane to Ireland. We'll get a few thousand miles between us and Snow. A good, long break."

He's right. It's hard to believe, but we've already been in New York for a month. In less than 48 hours, we'll be on our way across the ocean.

But if he thinks a body of water is going to stop Snow from trying to control us, he's more naïve than I thought.

_When is it over?_I asked Cinna._When he says it is._

"Thanks, Mr. Brightside."

"We're gonna be fine," Peeta says calmly. He's been saying it a lot. Like a mantra. Photographers outside the hotel again. We're going to be fine. Caesar somehow knowing not only where but what we ate for lunch. We're going to be fine.

I look at him, and his face is so stoic, his eyes so full of confidence in the words that he's saying. I don't know if I believe it – the dread hasn't left the pit of my stomach since I held the bouquet of primroses in my hand. But I know Peeta believes it, and that's somehow enough to keep me going for now.

"We're going to be fine," I repeat.

**_ KatnissEverdeen_**_Filming one of my fave scenes with PeetaMellark today! Guess which one… ;) #starsfalling_

I hate tweeting. Every time I send out one of these inane messages, I feel like I lose a part of my soul. But it's part of the game, and since the photo shoot and the primroses, I've been hyper-aware that we weren't playing it as well as we thought.

Peeta, too, has stepped up his game. When we're on set, out in public, anywhere but our hotel rooms at night, he is effusive in his affection for me – holding my hand, wrapping his arms around me every chance he gets, never leaving my side. We tweet pictures of ourselves together and not-so-subtle hints about how much we're enjoying our time on set.

We're both sure that no one who saw us would doubt there was something on between us.

But who knows if it's enough.

"Big day," Portia, our makeup artist, says gently to me as she brushes a soft rouge across my cheeks. We're less than 20 minutes away from the start of shooting for the day, and she's getting me ready to go on set.

"Big day," I agree neutrally, though I offer her the kindest smile I can manage. She seems to hesitate before she speaks again, but clearly can't contain her enthusiasm.

"It's my favorite scene in the book," she volunteers. "I'm really excited to watch you guys film it today."

_Wonderful._

My phone buzzes in my lap, and I glance down at it. Probably Haymitch giving me a pat on the back for the tweet, or maybe Peeta with some more words of encouragement or a joke to distract me.

_**Gale**__Just took Prim 2 lunch. She's at least a foot taller. Sorry to break it to u. Kids not a kid. Im not handling it well._

My heart swells as I read over the text again. Because I miss her so much, and him, too. And I'm so grateful that he's there to be a big brother when I can't be her big sister the way I want to.

_Lock her away. No boys til she's 30._

**_Gale_**_I was thinking 40._

As Portia fusses over my face, carefully drawing on the scars and bruises so they match the other footage we've shot, I text back and forth with Gale about life in L.A. It's nice to have the back-and-forth between him, even though it's only through iMessages.

I haven't had much time for Gale lately.

Between filming and trying to keep my sanity when I'm off set, I've been totally preoccupied. And it occurs to me, as I finish reading a text about a project Prim is working on with some boy named Rory, that for the first time since Gale and I have lived together, we don't really know what's going on in one another's lives.

He has no idea how much time I've been spending with Peeta. Though I've gathered, through the handful of less-than-subtly sarcastic texts he's sent me about our public rendezvous, that he wouldn't handle it well if I did.

_Hows your doc coming? Still working on it?_

Gale's been working on a documentary about impoverished families in L.A. for over a year. The footage I've seen is remarkable – gritty, and honest and totally revealing of the world outside glossy, glamorous Hollywood.

_Grant fell thru. Thinking about Kickstarter._

I sigh. Gale is frustratingly stubborn. Despite the fact that he knows I could probably single-handedly fund his entire project, he won't take a cent from me, even though it means delaying the film he's wanted to make since he was in film school.

"You've done too much for me already, Catnip," he always says. "Letting me stay with you… I barely pay rent. I can't take your money."

I don't like it, but I respect it.

_Good idea. Let me know if I can help._

**_Gale_**_Hows it going there? Pumped for leprechaun land?_

_Still busy. Going to film now. Can I call you before we take off tomorrow?_

**_Gale_**_U better._

I shut my phone off and look up at the mirror just in time for Portia to announce I'm ready to go.

Before I leave the trailer, I duck into the small bathroom and quickly brush my teeth. The last thing I need is Peeta teasing me for the rest of the shoot because I had coffee breath during our passionate embrace.

_It's just a scene. It's just a scene. It's just a scene._

But it's time to get ready. I begin to recite the words I've created for myself to help get me into character.

_My name is Tessa Bradley. I am seventeen years old. I've rebelled against the government because they were going to kill my best friend. They killed her anyway. I tried to fight back. They killed my entire family. They killed Blake._

_I miss my best friend. I miss my family._

_I miss Blake._

Rebecca Ridgeway described the safety tunnels that lead in and out of the Resistance Camp as being "dense and oppressively claustrophobic." And it certainly feels that way today, as I duck my head under the large plaster wall that separates the rest of the studio from the set. It's all grey blue and metallic-looking walls and pipes. Grates line the floor, and the steam machines below are going off at unpredictable intervals as the technicians test them.

The first thing I see as I walk through a dense cloud of steam is Peeta and Plutarch, standing together and huddled over the script. Plutarch is speaking animatedly to Peeta, who nods calmly.

He, too, has been made up to look as though he just survived an intense battle. A long red scar is painted across his cheek, and it looks like there's dried blood in his blonde hair.

He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up from the script and smiles kindly at me, beckoning me over.

"Katniss!" Plutarch exclaims as I approach. "Peeta and I were just going over the blocking for the scene. But I'll fill you in, too."

Our director explains how I'll move down the tunnel and turn a corner to see Peeta – Blake – standing. A steadicam will follow me down the hall, and then we'll switch to stationary cameras to capture the rest of the scene.

"Once you've seen him, your blocking is pretty minimal, Katniss. The lead up to the big kiss is really all on Peeta," he says with a wink.

Peeta will move to me and initiate the kiss, which I'll enthusiastically return, Plutarch says. Then we'll hear voices shouting further down in the tunnels – government officials who've realized we're still alive and are hunting us down. Peeta will grab my hand and we'll take off running.

"It's such a great scene. So much emotion. So much passion," Plutarch is positively giddy. "This is why I do what I do."

_Yes, because this is all about you, Plutarch._

I don't trust myself to react respectfully, so I wander off to get myself ready for the scene. I'm so focused on remembering my blocking and getting into character that I don't hear Peeta approach from behind. Hey greets me with his usual friendly tone, but the sound of his voice startles me and I turn to face him quickly.

"Don't sneak up on me," I say, my tone harsher than I intend.

He reaches out to rub my arm affectionately. "Sorry." He lowers his voice. "You still nervous?"

"At this point, I just want to get it over with, I say, though my stomach is still in knots. He leans in close to me – someone must be watching us – and his voice is almost a whisper when he speaks.

"I might be a little nervous, too, after all."

I look up into his eyes and see that he's not just saying it to make me feel better. And just that – knowing that he feels what I feel, that he's not immune to the pressure of this moment, not to mention how weird it is that we're about to kiss the crap out of each other in front of dozens of people – somehow is what finally helps me start to feel at ease.

"Scared I'm gonna kick your ass?" I ask, lowering my voice to match his volume.

His breath comes out in a rush as he smiles. "Can you blame me?"

And for just a second, I think maybe he _is_ scared of me. I look at him quizzically, but can't find a way to put my confusion at his mood into words. "I won't knee you if you promise not to stick your tongue down my throat."

"Deal." He says, taking my hand in his like we're going to shake on it. His hand lingers in mine – strong, warm, and my hand fits almost entirely in his palm. "Just… tell me if something isn't okay?"

He's always so concerned about things being right for me. Always asking me if I'm okay. Yet another reminder of how lucky I am that it's him with me now and not some other self-centered, oblivious heartthrob.

I squeeze his hand. "I'll tell you. You'll tell me, too, right? If I suck?"

He squeezes back. "You're not going to suck." And I don't know how he can be so sure, but Plutarch is calling us to get into our places. I don't have time to consider Peeta anymore, as I move to my starting position and start prepping.

_My name is Tessa Bradley. I'm seventeen years old. I need food and shelter. I need to get below ground before more bombs come…_

Plutarch yells action, and I wait a beat and then start moving. Slowly, deliberately, I walk stealthily down the hall, a large metallic bat clutched in my hand for protection. I take one step, then another, my senses fully tuned in to every little sound and flicker of light around me. I can't let my guard down for even a second.

Who knows what I'll see when I round this next corner? Dead bodies? Government soldiers waiting to execute me on sight? Or just another empty tunnel where my friends and fellow rebels used to gather, working and hoping for a better life.

I'm not prepared for what I see. In fact, it's so shocking that I think I must be delirious, or unconscious, or maybe even dead. Because ghosts aren't real. But Blake is standing right there, just a few feet away from me at the end of the tunnel. He looks every bit as surprised to see me.

"CUT!"

We shoot this part of the sequence three more times until Plutarch feels like we've nailed it. Now it's time for the next set up.

While this passage in the book has dialogue, Plutarch has opted to leave it out. He seems sure we'll be able to convey the feelings with our bodies and our expressions, and thinks the drama will be amplified if we're so overcome with relief and passion that we can't even speak.

I pace nervously on my end of the tunnel as the cameras roll into place. I decide it's better if I don't look at Peeta. I need to stay in my head - in Tessa's head – or I'm going to psyche myself out.

Before I know it, we're ready to roll. I see Peeta at the other end. He looks stoic and brooding and for a second I don't know if I'm looking at him or if he's just deep into Blake mode.

"Action!"

We stand staring at each other, paralyzed with fear and shock. Steam rises from the grates below us, and then – so quickly it makes me jump – there's a clattering noise as Peeta drops the crowbar in his hand and sprints toward me.

He reaches me in seconds, and without thinking, I throw myself into his arms as I tilt my face up to meet his. His hands cup my jaw possessively and he presses his lips against mine.

The kiss is impossibly hot. I grip his shoulders, pulling him closer to me until our chests are pressed together. And his lips meet mine again and again, urgently, gratefully, creating a silent dialogue. _I missed you, I need you, I love you…_

One of his hands travel into my hair while the other snakes down my back to pull me closer. And I actually moan.

"CUT!"

Peeta pulls away from me as though he's been scalded. I can't help but stare at his lips – slightly swollen and red – and notice the way his chest rises and falls as he catches his breath. I'm sure I look equally unraveled.

It's silent on set as Plutarch studies us for a minute, and dread starts to fill in my chest.

_Was it that awful? It didn't _**_feel_**_awful..._

Then Plutarch clears his throat. "I'm a little worried about getting that PG-13 rating," he says as a grin spreads across his face. "Seriously, you two, that was a scorcher."

Relief floods through me and I look over to Peeta who's grinning as well.

We don't have time to talk before he's ushered back to his end of the set, but I see the question in his eyes. Okay?

I wonder if he can see that I'm still breathless as I nod my affirmation.

_Yes, it was okay. It was great. You were perfect._

I barely have time to notice that my body feels almost like it's buzzing like there are electric currents coursing through it.

I'm instructed to move into place for the second take.

"All right, you two. Let's try it again."

- end part eight -


	9. A change of pace

**Note: **First of all, apologies for the delay in posting this chapter. Work and my family have kept me pretty busy. I hope to post more frequently in the days to come. I'll try to give a head's up on my Tumblr account ( .com) when I'm getting ready to post the next chapter.

Second, thank you again to each and every person who continues to give feedback. It motivates me to keep writing, even when I'm sleep deprived. Each comment means so much to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

17 times.

Plutarch has Peeta and I shoot our reunion 17 times. Each time, it seems to get more passionate. By the last take, we're crashing together, mouths colliding, hands exploring waists and hips and hair… by the time the afternoon is over, my lips are raw and swollen and I feel a little dizzy. And like I could sleep for days.

Turns out kissing is hard work.

It's a relief, though, to have the scene behind us. Maybe the footage that will undoubtedly leak to Caesar by this evening will appease Snow. Plutarch was positively elated by the time we wrapped for the day; he walked off set muttering something about "the annals of film history."

It seems like the only person who isn't in a good mood by the time we're done is Peeta. He kept his energy up during filming, but was uncharacteristically quiet most of the day.

I asked him if he was okay more than once, and his reply was always the same – a nod of the head and a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He's just getting into character, I told myself to try and stop the uneasy feeling at seeing my friend so distant.

But he's just as stoic on our ride back to the hotel.

"I'm going to start packing tonight," I say, mostly to fill the dead air between us. Peeta is looking out the window, and doesn't bother to shift his gaze when he answers me.

"That's a good idea. Maybe I will, too."

Three minutes later, the silence and strain between us is killing me. "I think we need to get pizza tonight. Do they even have pizza in Ireland?"

"I guess we'll find out."

It's weird.

"What's up with you?" I finally blurt out. Surprised at my outburst, Peeta finally turns to face me, his face unreadable. After a moment, he sighs.

"I'm just tired," he says, his tone short.

We don't speak again until we're outside our respective rooms at the hotel.

"I'll see you later," he says as he walks into his. The door shuts before I can respond.

I'm inexplicably furious by the time I've made it into my own room. I throw my key down on my desk and pace for a minute, trying to collect my thoughts.

_What the hell is wrong with him?_

It's too quiet in my room. On a normal day, Peeta and I would be sprawled out on my bed, sifting through the carryout menus we've collected over the past few weeks and trying to decide what's for dinner.

Does kissing really put him in that bad of a mood? That would explain why he doesn't have a girlfriend…

I can't shake the nagging feeling that I've done something wrong. That his strangely foul mood is somehow because of something I did.

I could just go knock on his door and demand that he tell me what's wrong.

Or I could text him. Texting is safer. There's less yelling with texting, and I tend to yell when I get mad.

_What's for dinner?_

It takes him a minute to respond.

_**Peeta**__ Not feeling that great. Count me out._

My heart sinks a little when I read the message. We've never not had dinner together since we got to Ithaca.

He's never been this short with me.

I decide to take some of my frustration out on my clothing by stuffing it aggressively into my suitcase. Ten minutes later, I've got a decent amount of my luggage packed, but I'm still thinking about Peeta.

Maybe he really isn't feeling well. It was extraordinarily hot on set – he could have gotten overheated.

I should just leave him alone.

But I can't. Because I know if it were me, he'd be there, offering to go to the drug store for some medicine or make a vending machine run for something to settle my stomach.

The thought occurs to me, and before I have a chance to second guess whether it will actually make the situation worse, I'm picking up the phone by my bed and dialing the concierge downstairs.

"Hi, this is Katniss Everdeen. I'd like to order some room service."

I stop myself three times before I work up the courage to knock on his door. A few seconds pass, and then I can hear Peeta's muffled voice on the other side.

"It's unlocked."

I open the door that separates our rooms, carefully balancing a room service tray. Peeta's sitting on his bed, legs stretched out, with only the quickly-fading sunlight to light his room.

I stand in just inside the room, unmoving as we stare at each other for a moment. I'm not sure what to say, and I still can't tell if he's going to snap at me.

"I, uh… got you some soup if you're hungry." I shrug. "I always make Prim soup when she's sick."

Peeta still looks tense as he stares at me for so long that I start to feel uncomfortable. Then he seems to lose the tension in his shoulders as he lets out a large exhale.

"You didn't have to."

"I know," I say defensively. "If you don't want it –" And then, before I can stop myself, "Was I that bad of a kisser?"

He lets out a halting breath, somewhere between choking and sighing and laughing. And if it's possible, I'm more confused by his mood and his reaction to me than I was before I entered the room.

"I'm sorry," he finally says. "I don't know what's wrong with me today. I think I'm just wiped out. All this - everything - it's a lot to take sometimes." He considers me for another second. "You wanna sit down?"

I cross the room and place the tray on his bed before sitting down on the other side of it. "You don't have to apologize," I say. "It's a long shoot. We're all bound to have bad days."

He nods at this as he absently stirs a spoon in the steaming bowl of soup I've placed before him. "Thanks for the soup."

Silence falls between us again, but it's not as uncomfortable as before. Peeta's mood seems to improve as we eat, and it brightens considerably as we start to discuss our impending trip to Ireland.

"We have to see the Cliffs of Moher," Peeta says, reaching over to his bedside table and grabbing a handful of paper. It looks like he actually printed out Internet articles about different places to visit, and he shows me each of them. The Ring of Kerry. The Blarney Stone. Trinity College.

"Will we even have time to see all this?"

He grins. "We'll make time. You can get bus passes, and we have weekends off. No more promotional events and photo shoots to keep us busy. It's gonna be awesome."

He's right. Haymitch told us, when he was coaching us for our interview, that once we made it overseas, the hoopla we faced each day would die down a little. We'd still probably see the occasional paparazzo, but the constant, day-to-day pressure of having photographers follow us around would probably be waning.

A break, yes. But will Snow stop watching us? Will we be able to finally act normal around each other in public? I can't imagine what it would be like, not spending every second of the day in Peeta's presence. I realize that I don't want that part of all of this to change. I'd miss the warmth of his hand in mine, the way he's able to work the tension out of my bones with his on-set shoulder rubs, the way he playfully tugs my braid.

Maybe that's what he means – why he's been in such a bad mood today. Between the kissing and the pubic displays of affection, he's finally had enough of acting like my lover. He's probably counting down the seconds until we're on that plane and some of the pressure to perform is off.

_Who could blame him?_

I can't acknowledge the pit in my stomach, because if I recognize it, I'd have to try to understand it. And I don't have the energy to sort out how complicated my emotions seem to have become.

So I say goodnight, and though a puzzled look crosses his face at my abrupt departure, he nods. "Thanks again for dinner."

Despite the exhaustion that's overtaken my body, all I can feel when I pull the covers around me is how raw my lips still are. I touch my fingertips to them tentatively and find they don't tingle the way they did when Peeta's mouth was against mine.

It takes me hours to fall asleep.

There's something strange about leaving a place you know you won't be returning to. A ritualistic way of walking around a room to take it in one last time.

After we dropped Mom off at the rehab facility, I returned to the grimy apartment our family shared one last time before I turned in the keys to our landlord. The walk then was triumphant – a sense of victory at knowing I would never again have to see the water stain in the ceiling, or hear the drip, drip, drip of the faucet.

Today, it's a different feeling. A pang of sadness mixed with excitement, as I look around my now-empty hotel room. I spent almost a month here, every night, studying my script, Facetiming with Prim, undwinding and laughing with Peeta. And this afternoon, someone else will occupy it and I'll be flying over the ocean.

_I made a friend here._

Peeta's been totally normal since the weirdness of the kissing day. He approached me the next morning, a cup of coffee for me in hand, and it was like the previous night hadn't happened. We filmed our last scene – where we climb onto the last remaining rebel aircraft after another bombing raid and are shocked when it begins to take off – and then had a champagne toast with the cast and crew before they began to strike the set.

He meets me in the hallway outside of our rooms, a backpack – his carryon – slung over his shoulder. He takes my hand in his – it's routine at this point, something neither of us even think about – but the grin on his face is a little mischievous.

"What are you planning?" I ask him, raising an eyebrow in suspicion.

"We're gonna ditch Effie. And we're gonna drink beer. Good, Irish beer before we get on the plane." His grin grows wider. "To celebrate. To start the trip off right."

I have to admit it sounds like an infinitely better option than listening to our publicist nervously chatter on her telephone in the waiting area. During our short connecting flight to LaGuardia, I make a list of the things I still need to do before we take off – call Prim, call Gale, try not to panic about the fact that I'm leaving the country while my sister stays here. The drinking will definitely help with the last part.

Once we land and make it through airport security, it's surprisingly easy to get away from Effie. As usual, she's bustling about, trying to find someone who can assure her that our baggage will make it onto the international flight.

Peeta and I find a bar – Slip Mahoney's – and take a seat at a booth near the back. We order two Guinness stouts and clink them together after the bartender sets them down in front of us.

"To Ireland," I say.

"To an adventure," Peeta replies. His eyes flit around the restaurant – not that crowded, despite the fact that it's mid-day – and he cocks an eyebrow at me. "Do you see the guy at the bar?"

I glance over, trying to be subtle, and I can't believe I didn't notice him when we walked in. Tall, with dark hard tucked under a worn baseball cap and piercing gray, he's definitely familiar. I try to place him.

"He's been on set a lot," Peeta murmurs. "Taking pictures of us, I think. Remember?"

I do. I can see him, towering above other people on the busy set, holding his cell phone up like he's looking at it. But he always had it pointed directly at us.

"Do you think he's one of Caesar's guys? Trying to get something before we take off?"

Peeta nods as he takes another drink. "Probably."

"Or maybe he's Snow's." I say, darkly. And I decide that now is a good time to step out and make my goodbye phone calls. I explain to Peeta that I'll be back soon and duck out, careful to avoid making eye contact with the man at the bar.

"I'm so excited for you!" Prim squeals, and when I close my eyes, I can see the grin on her face as she sits at her desk at Palm Hills. I managed to find a relatively empty waiting area not far away from our restaurant, and was thrilled when Prim picked up after only one ring.

"I'm going to miss you so much," I return, trying to communicate how much I mean it with my words alone.

"Don't worry about me, Katniss," Prim warns. Of course she knows. She knows me maybe better than anyone. "Gale is taking good care of me. He even came to see my tennis match yesterday."

I grin at this and make a mental note to thank Gale, yet again, for being there when I can't.

We talk for a few more minutes, and then Prim tells me she has to go to class.

"Be careful and have fun. Seriously. You've earned it."

"I love you, Prim."

"I love you, too."

Gale, too, picks up almost immediately.

"Slainte," he greets.

"Gesundheit," I reply, and he laughs.

I rattle off the list of things I need him to remember – pay the water bill, water my plants, and make sure Prim has money in her school account for the things she needs.

"You don't need to worry, Catnip," he admonishes. "I've got this."

"I know you do," I say, warmth filling me. "Gale… thank you."

"Skype me when you're settled, okay? It's been too long since I saw you."

"I wish you could come," I say, and I mean it. It feels almost surreal to be taking this huge step – visiting a new country for the first time in my life – without my best friend. He's been there for most major milestones since we met – hell, he drove me to my Space Between audition – and now it will be months before I see him.

"I'll stay in touch better. I will. I promise," I say, and I'm surprised at how my voice catches in my throat.

"I'll miss you," he replies.

"I'll be back before you know it," I say, but it somehow feels false. He already feels so much farther away than he did when I first got here.

I take a moment for myself after I hang up with Gale to process it all – the goodbyes, and the trip ahead of me, and how crazy it is that this is my life now.

I'm so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I don't hear the man approaching me until he's clearing his throat to get my attention.

"Miss Everdeen?"

He wears a three-piece suit and sunglasses even though we're inside.

"Come with me, please. Mr. Snow would like to speak with you."

Somehow, the reality of what this means doesn't hit me until I'm guided into a small private waiting room and I see him sitting there.

Coriolanus Snow. Here at the airport. He's seated in one of the uncomfortable waiting room chairs, typing languidly on a state of the art laptop, and if he notices that I've entered the room, he doesn't let on.

The door shuts behind me, and it's just the two of us in here and my heart is racing but I manage to steel myself so that he can't see how terrified I am.

"Mr. Snow, what a surprise," I say, and I'm amazed at how even my tone is.

He stops typing, and his ice-blue eyes meet mine. "Miss Everdeen. Always a pleasure." He gestures to a seat that faces opposite him, but I don't move.

"Did you need something?"

He raises an eyebrow, clearly less than pleased at my defiance.

"I just wanted to speak with you before you left," he smiles. "See how things are going."

"You haven't seen already?" I've crossed my arms against my chest, and God what am I doing? This man is threatening everything I've worked for, and I can't seem to stop myself from openly expressing my distaste for him.

Another smile – just as chilling. "Oh, I've seen. You and Mr. Mellark have truly delighted so many with your budding relationship. So many."

"I'm glad you're pleased," I say.

"I didn't say I was," he replies. And he turns his laptop around so I can see the screen. What I see there makes me momentarily forget how to breathe.

Prim. Beautiful Prim, wearing her school tennis uniform, standing with classmates near the court where she plays.

"I had a wonderful time at Palm Hills yesterday, getting a tour of the facility. I'm a donor, I'm sure you know."

I didn't.

"I took in a tennis match while I was there. Prim is really quite an athlete. Surprisingly strong for someone so dainty," He turns the computer back around. "Of course, she's nothing like Lane Mellark. He's a born wrestler. It's thrilling to see, really."

Nausea bubbles through me.

"I was thinking while I was there watching her match how much Caesar would love to do a piece on darling Prim. Her strength and resilience, the way she's overcome the adversity of losing her father and having a drug addict for a mother. Her quiet love for the sister who raised her. The story would be front page news for weeks. In fact, I was just writing him an email to let him know."

"You wouldn't," I gasp. "We've done everything you've asked for. Everything."

"Not everything," he replies. When he speaks again, it is forcefully, though the volume of his voice never changes. "Katniss, you can flirt with the boy and make googly eyes at him all you want. It means nothing. That's a story that can only be told for so long. Even Caesar is running out of ways to make a picture of the two of you eating tacos together seem intriguing. And we can't very well go showing the whole world your big exciting scene before this film is released. It's time for you to step it up a bit. Give them something new to get excited over."

It's sickening, really, how low he'll stoop to control us. How much he seems to enjoy watching me squirm.

"I'm sure you've been looking forward to this trip. To getting away from it all." His eyes harden now as he looks at me. "You'll be getting away from nothing, I'm sure you realize. I have a lot of people who are more than happy to act as my eyes and ears. Always."

I think of the man in the bar.

"I've noticed."

Again, he smiles, and it takes everything in me not to launch at him, to throw him to the ground and make him regret ever threatening me or Prim.

"If you're not comfortable keeping our arrangement going, I'm more than happy to reach out to Caesar. Give him something new to focus on. Just say the word."

"Don't." I shake my head vehemently. "Don't. We'll keep it going."

"Well then," He says as he shuts his laptop, "Have a wonderful trip, my dear."

I'm not even sure how I make my way back to the bar. My mind is racing and I can't stop my heart from beating hard against my chest.

I knew Snow was a megalomaniac – a man who will stop at nothing to make sure he remains on top. But there's something so sinister about this new development – that he's been in any close proximity to Prim – makes me almost crazy.

When I walk into the restaurant, I see Peeta in the back. He's looking at his phone, oblivious to the man at the bar who is watching me. He is Snow's. He's here for a reason. This is a test.

_We'll keep it going_, I said. For Lane. For Prim.

_I hate him, I hate him, I hate him_, it runs through me like a mantra as I approach our table. When Peeta sees me, he slides out of the booth to greet me,.

I make it to him in seconds.

"Hey, I ordered you another -"

I cut him off with my lips.

If he's surprised, he doesn't show it. There's no hesitation as he reciprocates. This kiss is nothing like the ones from the other day. It's gentle and intimate and anyone who witnessed it would probably think it's one of thousands we've shared – a hello between two lovers. It lasts only seconds – long enough, I hope, for the man at the bar to capture it on his phone.

I pull away first, afraid to open my eyes, afraid to look at him and see Peeta's reaction. When I finally do, there is a question in his eyes, but an unmistakable warmth, too.

"Okay?" I whisper, still close enough that I can say it without anyone hearing.

"Okay," he says and he slides back into the booth without another word.

I steal a glance toward the bar as I, too, take my seat and see that the man is gone now.

We're alone – at least for this second, we're alone.

"I'll tell you on the plane," I murmur, and I take a long drink of my beer. Peeta only nods – though I know when I fill him in on the details that somehow, he'll have already pieced together, more or less, what has happened. He knows what the kiss means.

It means we've failed so far. It means there's more to come.

- end chapter nine -


	10. You see there's nothing sacred here

NOTE: Once again, thanks to all for the reviews, follows and favorites. I've been posting more frequently on Tumblr - including a mid-week snippet - so if you'd like to have a better idea of when I'll be posting the next chapter, please follow me there! Username: accio-grace

_**CaesarFlickrman**__OMFE! #Everlark is REAL. C the blog for xclusive smooch pics. /everlarkkiss_

I don't know what to feel when I see Caesar's latest tweet. It confirms, at least, that we've appeased Snow for now. If the kiss hadn't been enough, surely Caesar would be buzzing about Prim or Lane.

Before I have a chance to click the link, the pilot's voice crackles on above us, asking that we turn off all electronic devices until we're safely in the air.

Once again, we're in first class. Peeta and I are seated next to one another, but we haven't had a chance to talk much since we left the bar. Between Effie busily telling us the details of the flight – how long it will be, what will be served, and what time we can expect to land in Dublin tomorrow – and the chaos of making it on board, we haven't spoken a word about the kiss at the bar. Or why I did it.

All around us, the _Stars Falling _crew is busy chatting, laughing, and settling in for the long flight. I glance over at Peeta and see that he's staring straight ahead, seemingly lost in thought. Is he thinking about the kiss? Exploring worst-case scenarios in his mind for why I would have approached him so boldly?

It's not right to keep him wondering, I know. So despite the fact that we could potentially have an audience, I lean over to him and nudge his arm gently.

"Did you see it?"

"Caesar's tweet?" He responds, his voice quiet enough that no one around us will hear. "Yeah."

He's looking at me intently now, his clear blue eyes sweeping over my face. "What's going on?"

I take a deep breath and lean closer to him. It's not a bad idea anyway – any of Snow's spies on set, and surely there must be more than a few, will only look at us and see an intimate conversation. "Snow came to see me at the airport."

His mouth falls into a frown. "Are you okay?"

I shake my head. "No. He had pictures of Prim. He's been going to her school, watching her. Lane, too."

Peeta does a good job of masking the anger that I can clearly see now in his eyes. In a whispered rush, I quickly fill him in on the rest of our conversation.

He exhales shakily when I'm done.

"I'm sorry I didn't warn you. I just knew we didn't have much time, the guy at the bar..." I blurt out, and he quickly puts a shaking hand over mine, rubbing his thumb over my knuckle.

"It's okay. It's going to be okay," he sighs. "We'll… we're gonna be okay."

It seems like every time he tells me this, something has happened that makes me believe it less.

He speaks again, so quietly I barely hear him, and the last thing either one of us says until after the plane takes off.

"You don't have to apologize for anything."

Everyone around me – including Peeta – manages to doze off about halfway through the flight. I get close – letting the hum of the airplane lull me into a kind of half-consciousness. In the quiet, dark cabin, my thoughts drift down deep, where I seldom let them land.

_I am 11 years old when my father is ripped from my life. And little Prim is only 3. I don't know how many times it hits me in those first few days – I will have so many memories of him, but to her he will always be only a blurry image, a story of what it was like to have a father._

_Our town, Panem, is small. One of the few communities left in Pennsylvania where a majority of the families are tied to one industry – coal mining._

_So when the explosion happens, it's a big enough deal that they announce it over the intercom at my school._

_I'm out of my chair before the principal has finished speaking in his measured, somber tone. I'm running the three blocks to my house where I know my mother and Prim will be sitting and waiting if the news has reached them._

_They don't let families come to the mines when there's been an accident. There have been too many widows made there in the past, too many hysterical wives and children waiting to see if they're next. We know the drill – Dad is a foreman, he's told us so many times. We wait for him to come home. We want to hear the news._

_It's evening when we hear the knock at the front door. And the fact that it's a knock - and not the sound of my father entering our small house – that is my mother's undoing. She collapses on the kitchen floor, moaning and sobbing. I can only glance at Prim, sitting in her high chair, wailing too – not because of Dad but because Mom is scaring her – because I am moving, almost robotically, to answer the door. To receive the news that my mother cannot._

_There were no survivors that day. It made national news._

_The mining company made a big show of giving the grieving families a year's salary in restitution. Because my father was the highest ranking man down there, they trotted us out in front of news cameras and flashing lights to make a stupid speech about how the whole town felt our loss._

_I held Prim in my arms as she hid her face from the crowd. They terrified her – all of it did. The lights and the voices shouting questions at us from the audience. She became so withdrawn so quickly after Dad's death. Any sudden noises made her jump; the sound of a knock at the door – usually a bill collector or social worker stopping by for a visit in the later days – made her howl in terror._

_And I learned quickly that if I wasn't there to scoop her up and hug her extra tight, to soothe her with whispered words of comfort and reassurance, that no one would be._

_12 miners killed that day. Their bodies were never recovered. And neither did my mother._

_First she was simply catatonic. As if that weren't terrifying enough. In the first few months, the hospital where she worked as a nurse was sympathetic; they excused her missed shifts and scattered behavior. After she almost killed a patient by giving him the wrong medication, they had to let her go._

_Then the drugs started. Prescription sleep aids given to her by a friend. Then pain killers. It was worst when she mixed them together. When I was 14, Prim and I came home to our mother passed out in the bathroom in a pool of her own vomit._

_The sirens and flashing lights scared Prim most of all._

_Sweet, delicate Prim._

"_I don't know how you do it, Katniss," she said to me, years later, after I won my Independent Film Award. "I think I'd panic if I had people yelling my name and taking pictures of me like that."_

_She doesn't remember it all – her young age when it all happened and my diligence to keep her life normal helped her block the worst of it out. The reporters yelling our names as the mayor gave my mother a memorial plaque. The police officer saying our names repeatedly when he asked us about Mom. The social worker mixing us up when she came for a home visit. Everything clean, everything spotless, because if she knew – really – that my mother was still using drugs, she'd take us both away and Prim wouldn't have anyone to hold her when the lights got too bright._

I squeeze my eyes shut tightly, willing the memories away. Breathe deeply to quell the rising panic I feel.

_It worked. It worked. She's safe. For now._

"You okay?"

Peeta's voice is soft, but it startles me. I didn't realize he was awake.

I nod, leaning my head back against my seat. The sun is rising outside our airplane, making the clouds around us an array of pinks and oranges.

I don't resist when his hand slides into mine. I squeeze it, gently, and let my eyes drift closed.

When I wake up a couple of hours later, to the pilot announcing that we're preparing to land, my hand is still entwined with his.

And so we start the new part of this adventure as we promised we would: together.

I don't know what I'm expecting when we land – I've never been to a different country. But as we walk through the terminal and glance around at the familiar brands and fluorescent lights, I find that I don't _feel_ any different.

Effie, Peeta and I pile into a modest town car once we've cleared customs. After a long flight, our publicist isn't exactly in the best of moods. She actually yawns when she's in the middle of informing us what to expect next in the day.

"The whole crew is trickling into town. You won't begin shooting until early next week. Today, we'll stay in at the Ashling Hotel downtown. Beautiful place, very modern." She says, though her voice lacks its typical overly-chirpy enthusiasm. "Then tomorrow, we'll make the rest of the trip to Dingle and get you all set up there."

My stomach turns with nervous excitement. Peeta and I spent several hours investigating the area we'd be staying in – Dingle Peninsula is in the southwest corner of Ireland in County Kerry. From the pictures we found online, it looks exactly how I've always pictured Ireland to be - rolling hills and stunning cliffsides, pristine bodies of water that seem to go on forever underneath endless skies, and green, green everywhere. A handful of other big Hollywood movies have been filmed there, but we're the first major film set to visit the area in almost 20 years.

"Where are we staying again?" Peeta asks, stifling a yawn of his own.

"Capitol Films has rented several flats for the cast and crew throughout the village. We're really taking over the place. You and Katniss each have a lovely boutique apartment in a historic home _right_ in the city center, along with some of your other cast mates." She looks down at her phone, slipping her finger over the screen until she finds the information she's looking for. "Yes, Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason will be in the same home. Really, it's perfect. You'll all become a little family."

I exchange a look with Peeta and wonder if he's feeling the same level of dread that I do. Probably not – he's far and away more outgoing than I am. I've gotten used to it being just him and me. The idea of other people encroaching on the safe haven we've built makes me extremely uncomfortable.

Especially if those people are Finnick Odair and Johanna Mason.

Weeks ago, I cringed when I heard the news that they'd each been cast in _Stars Falling_. They both represent pieces of the Hollywood lifestyle that I just can't stand.

Finnick has been a long-standing staple of the Hollywood elite since he rose to fame when he was in his early teens. He starred as the prince in a live-action movie about mermaids, and his sinewy, perfectly sculpted torso and to-die-for smile was all anyone could talk about at Panem High.

I always thought he looked _too_ perfect – too rehearsed. The winks at the camera on the red carpet, the sexy, sultry tone his voice takes when he talked about his love life in interviews, have always seemed so false. And it seems like every time he steps out, he has a new woman on his arm. It's always rubbed me the wrong way. I can only imagine he'll be even more insufferable in person.

Then there's Johanna Mason. She made a name for herself on _Love of My Life_, a popular reality TV dating show. At first, she seemed withdrawn and shy, certain to be cast off within the first weeks. But she was sly and manipulative, and ended up turning several of the other women against one another – and the man they were vying for against them when he witnessed their catty behavior. Then, Johanna made her move. She ended up winning the whole show. When she dumped him a few weeks later, it made headlines. She said she wanted to focus on her career.

She _is_ a great actress. She took small parts in independent films to build up her credibility. But I've seen her around, and her personality – loud, and rude and completely self-centered – has never sat well with me.

But I can't deny that they're both perfect matches for the parts they'll be playing. Finnick is cast as Ryder Bowen, the charismatic leader of the Rebellion who rescues and recruits Tessa and Blake. And Johanna will play Serena Ashmore, a tough and sarcastic rebel who once worked for the government but joined the resistance after her family was murdered.

_It's good for the movie_. I remind myself. _You don't have to get to know them_.

By the time we reach our hotel, I'm beginning to feel the effects of jet lag and sleep deprivation. Though it's late morning here, my body seems convinced that it's still the middle of the night. I wander, dazed, through the Ashling Hotel lobby, taking in the gorgeous modern décor – marble counters, lush red carpets and couches, and a gorgeous view of downtown Dublin through large windows.

I'm so preoccupied with fighting off my sleepiness and taking in everything around me as I stand near the reception desk that I startle when a voice behind me speaks.

"Katniss Everdeen. We meet at last."

I turn and see Finnick, leaning leisurely against the desk. He's tall and lanky, and dressed in a t-shirt that highlights every toned muscle in his arms and shoulders. He shows off his perfect white teeth as he grins at me before biting down on a toothpick and worrying it between his teeth.

"Finnick," I reply shortly, too exhausted to make nice.

"This is exciting, isn't it?" He gestures around the lobby, where the cast and crew have gathered with their luggage. "Staying in gorgeous places, seeing the world… it's why I love this job."

"Oh? Not the line of women at your disposal?" I respond, a tight smile on my face. In the back of my head, I know I should at least try to be kind, but I don't have the energy.

Finnick laughs appreciatively at this, his eyes working up and down my body. "I like you. You're feisty."

"Great, because I was really worried about getting your approval," I bite back, which only makes him laugh again.

"We're gonna have a lot of fun," he says, leaning in closer to me. I get a hint of his cologne – something strong and musky that reminds me somehow of the ocean. Before I can respond, Peeta steps up next to me and wrap his arm gently around my waist.

"Hi Finnick," he says warmly, though he pulls me in as close as possible to him, possessively. I'm so grateful to have him by my side, to ease the discomfort of the conversation, that I instantly wrap my arm around his waist, my fingers clutching at his hip.

"Peeta," Finnick replies, his tone warm but completely devoid of the flirtatiousness he'd displayed with me seconds earlier. "A pleasure." His eyes glance back and forth between us for a moment before he grins. "Look, Jo and I and a few of the others are going out tonight. You two should come."

I open my mouth to refuse the offer, but Peeta speaks first. "Sure, that'd be great. What time?"

If he can feel the glare I shoot in his direction, he doesn't show it.

We part ways with Finnick a few minutes later, making plans to meet up later in the evening. And I manage to contain my frustration until we've made it up to our rooms. I guess Peeta can hear me throwing tossing my boots angrily and stomping around, because he knocks lightly on my door only a couple of minutes after disappearing into his own room to settle his things.

"Katniss, let me in," he says in a measured tone. I throw the door open but don't bother to greet him, instead retreating back into my room and throwing myself down on the bed. He saunters into the room, annoyingly calm, and stops at the foot of my bed, looking down at me with a barely contained amusement on his face.

"What's up?"

I scowl at him. "Really? Finnick and Johanna? You want to hang out with them? What if they're Snow's spies?"

I realize how ridiculous it sounds as soon as the words leave my mouth. But after the encounter I had with Snow just hours ago, and the photographs leaked to Caesar, and the fact that he seems to know where we are before we do, can Peeta really blame me for being so paranoid?

He sighs and sits at the end of the bed. "Katniss, you know as well as I do that we need to go. _Especially_ if they're Snow's spies. We need to be seen. The more we do it, the less we have to worry about everyone at home."

I glower at him, though the anger I feel subsides quickly. He's right. We need to be out. To be seen. No rest for the weary.

"Besides, we get what? A handful of nights here in Dublin? We should make the most of them. There are some pretty incredible restaurants and bars." He nudges my feet with his arm, trying to wrangle a smile out of me. "I'll buy you a beer. I'll buy you so many beers, you can forget how much you hate the people we're with."

I grunt my response as I turn over on my side and shove a pillow on top of my head, "I'm going to sleep now."

I can hear him chuckle as he moves to leave. "I'll wake you up around 7."

And then I don't hear anything until he's knocking on my door several hours later.

My nap helps improve my mood. So does the cup of coffee Peeta brought as a peace offering when he woke me.

After a quick shower, I rifle through my suitcase to find something to wear. I don't know anything about fashion – I'm a disaster, really, unless Cinna is there to dress me. But I do my best on my own, donning a pair of black skinny jeans and a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt that my old roommate, Madge, insisted I buy long ago. I pull my hair back in a loose ponytail and study myself in the mirror briefly. I don't think I look bad enough to warrant an Effie eye-roll, so I decide I'm good to go.

Peeta's waiting for me in the hall, propped up against the wall and reading something on his phone. He's dressed in a nice pair of jeans and a fitted pale blue button-up shirt that matches his eyes perfectly. I don't know who picks out his clothes – if he has a stylist of his own, or if Lane has helped him figure things out along the way – but whoever it is does a good job. He always looks nice without being _too _put together.

He grins when he sees me, stuffing his phone into his pocket.

"You look great," he appraises, and he grabs my hand. I don't know why I feel so uncomfortable all of a sudden as we walk down the hall together. We've done this dozens of times. It just feels strange, to be going _out_ together – not just for coffee or to and from the set, but at night, with the purpose of being seen. Knowing there will probably be more kissing.

It's almost like a date. A real one. And I've had one of those before.

_Well, he __**is**__ your pretend boyfriend, _I remind myself_. _But it does little to put me at ease.

We get onto the elevator, chatting idly about how we're handling the time change. It stops on the floor below ours, and the doors open to let someone else on.

It's Johanna Mason. She's wearing a skin-tight black dress that leaves little to the imagination, and smoky eye makeup that makes her look downright dangerous. Her jet-black hair is pulled up in an elaborate bun. She looks totally stunning.

She looks both of us up and down before her perfectly painted red lips break into a wry grin. "It's you two, then. I was wondering when we'd meet face-to-face." She focuses on me, then, her dark brown eyes locking mine in a gaze that feels more like a stand-off than a greeting. "Though I feel like I already know you, with how much you've been in the news, lately."

She rolls her eyes then. "Such a pain, right? To have the paps following you everywhere. Though I can't pretend I'm not jealous. I couldn't get that kind of press these days if I _tried_." She turns her back to us then, and shimmies back so she's standing right in front of Peeta. He glances at me, briefly, a confused expression crossing his face.

"Zip me, will you?" She asks him, her voice turning into a purr, and I find myself instantly hating her. Peeta obliges, politely, unable to keep the smirk off his face as he gingerly reaches for the zipper on the back of her dress and pulls it all the way up. She turns again to face us and considers the both of us – me glaring, Peeta looked bemused, his hands politely tucked behind his back. She grins again, wider this time, and then winks – actually winks – at Peeta. And I hate her more.

The elevator bell dings, signaling the end of the ride. Johanna turns on her high-heel and strides out of the compartment, calling out, "It was great to meet you," as she goes.

Dublin's city center seems to crackle with energy as our group walks through Temple Bar. Warm light and loud music pours out of the open door of each restaurant and pub that we pass, and there are hundreds of people walking about, laughing and talking and enjoying the cool night air.

Ahead of us, Johanna and Cressida's heels make clacking noises against the cobblestones beneath our feet. Finnick is walking with Annie, his personal assistant – because of _course_ he has one – talking animatedly to her as she dutifully listens.

Peeta and I walk together behind the others, hand-in-hand, trading notes.

"Finnick isn't that bad," Peeta muses quietly, and I lift my head from his shoulders to narrow my eyes at him.

"He's not _awful_," I concede, because yet again, he's right. While Finnick is everything that I'm not – charming, boisterous and endlessly flirtatious, he also proved to be a good dinner companion. His natural outgoing personality, combined with Peeta's own extroverted streak, made a dinner amongst a group of virtual strangers far less awkward than I thought it would be. By the end of the meal, we'd consumed so much delicious food and beer that I was infinitely more relaxed, and actually looking forward to the next phase of our night: A stop at Auld Dubliner, one of the most famous pubs in the city.

We find a booth in the back and order a round of drinks before settling in. Before long, there are three separate conversations going on; Peeta and Finnick realize they worked with the same director on different films and start trading horror stories. Cressida and Johanna get into a heated conversation about politics, even though from what I can tell they're both on the same side.

Annie, who's clearly just as withdrawn as I am, tentatively starts a conversation with me. I learn that she studied music therapy at USC, but couldn't find a job in her field so she changed career paths. I tell Annie, vaguely, about my time in Pennsylvania and we both agree that L.A. is not where we'd ideally like to settle down.

I'm happy to have Annie as a conversation partner, because she doesn't seem to mind when I falter for moments on end without anything to say. She seems just as content to people watch, unbothered by my inability to sustain prolonged small talk. I decide that I like Annie just fine.

Between the six of us, we polish of nearly two dozen beers and mixed drinks. Around midnight, Finnick orders a round of shots for everyone at the table and stands to make a toast when they arrive.

"To getting wasted in Ireland and making an awesome fucking movie."

We clink our shot glasses together and drink at the same time. The liquor burns as it shoots down my throat, and I find myself feeling tipsy just a few minutes later as it settles into my system.

The night seems to speed up, then – a blur of laughter and shouting and, yeah, okay, fun. Peeta is next to me the whole time, his arm wrapped leisurely around my waist, and I find myself tucking in closer to him, my hand resting on his shirt, right above his waistband. I know in the back of my head that I'd never be _this_ openly physical with him if alcohol wasn't such a great social lubricant. But he doesn't seem to mind.

"You doing all right?" He murmurs into my ear, sending a chill down my spine. I look up at him and impulsively tilt my head up and catch his lips briefly with my own. Why not? The bar is packed, and we've been approached by numerous patrons already looking for autographs and photos. God knows people are watching. Let them talk about it, tweet about it, spread the word. Every time they do, we buy a little more time for Prim and Lane.

When I pull away, he grins down at me. "You're drunk."

"Like you're not," I mumble.

"You're a cuddly drunk," he responds, laughing low in his throat, and he pulls me even closer and drops a kiss on the top of my head.

Cressida declares herself done shortly thereafter and Annie leaves with her so she doesn't have to find her way back to our hotel on her own. Then it's just the four of us – Peeta and I, pretty much plastered together, on one side of the booth and Finnick and Johanna on the other.

It's nearing 2 a.m. before we finally decide to call it a night. Despite my best attempts to communicate through eye contact that I don't want to be left alone with Johanna, Peeta suggests that he and Finnick go cash out our tabs at the bar.

They slide out of the booth and walk away, chatting idly, and I watch them go because it's way easier than attempting a conversation with the brunette across the table from me.

"So," she coos, sipping the last of her whiskey and twirling the straw in the glass. She's staring me down, an amused smile on her face that makes me feel enormously uncomfortable. "You and Peeta, huh?"

"Me and Peeta," I reply.

"I've wondered since I saw that basketball flick he did how he is in the sack," she says nonchalantly.

I try to keep my face from showing the surge of embarrassment that courses through me.

Johanna may be outspoken and crude, but she's obviously also pretty perceptive because she raises both her eyebrows and begins to laugh when she sees the expression on my face.

"Oh my God, you're telling me you haven't taken Tall, Blonde and Noble for a test drive?" Johanna throws her head back and laughs louder. "You mind if I do, then? He's not exactly my type, but he's way too gorgeous to pass up."

Then she winks at me.

I make a mental note to tell Peeta that I never want to be left alone with Johanna Mason again.

"I don't think you're really his type, either," I respond, not even sure where the words come from.

She downs the rest of her drink and nods as she chews on an ice cube. "I think you're right about that," and she glances over to the bar, where our companions are trying to sort out the wad of Euros they've assembled between the two of them. "It's okay, you know, Katniss. You don't have to be all embarrassed about it. We've all done it."

"Done what?" I ask, my curiosity overriding the desire to engage with her as little as possible.

"The whole fake relationship thing," she answers with an exasperated sigh, like it's the only thing she could have been talking about. "I think Finnick's lost count of how many 'relationships' he's been in," She says, making air quotes with her fingers. "And, well, I don't have to tell you about mine."

I'm too stunned to reply – not sure how to proceed. Is it that obvious? Or does she just know from experience? She flicks at the condensation in her glass before raising her eyes to look at me.

"I'm just saying, you might as well get something sweet out of the deal," Johanna explains. "And fuck if I wouldn't take advantage of it if I were you. He's gorgeous. He clearly knows what he's doing. And I mean, you're already halfway there."

Again, I have to ask her to clarify what she means. This earns me another seemingly condescending laugh.

"You seriously haven't figured it out, have you?" She cocks her head toward the bar, where I look over to see Peeta's eyes watching me. I smile softly at him – a gesture he returns. "God, are you brainless?"

My gaze falls back to her, burning fire at her insults. "No," I reply emphatically. "What are you talking about?"

"Peeta." She says coolly. "He totally wants you."

- end chapter 10 -


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